Monsieur
by EmmanuelleG
Summary: He taught her to live however she only wanted to leave. He is the psychiatrist, she is the unwilling patient. She doesn't have any problems ; he creates them, making her come back, always come back to him. Modern, dark, twisted obsession. ON HIATUS, undergoing rewrite.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

''How old are you ?''

''Seventeen…sixteen, sir.'' A moment of crude, silent interrogation. "Sixteen."

''Daaé. It's Daaé, right ? Christine Daaé.''

''Yes, sir, Christine Daaé.''

''That's a very pretty name. Are you European ? French perhaps ?''

''My father is from Sweden.''

"Is that a light accent that I discern?"

"Maybe."

''And what of your mother ?''

''My mother died. Six years ago. Car accident. She was American. Or not. We don't talk about her.''

''My condolences, Christine. My most sincere apologies, I shouldn't have asked.''

''You would have discovered one day. People who know me love to talk about it.''

''Yes, but I do not know any of your friends nor do I plan to question them about your life.''

''Oh. Isn't it what you do, though ? Inquire ? But, thank you I guess.''

''Everything that will be said here will remain strictly confidential, Christine. I am not allowed to divulge any information. Don't be scared.''

''I'm not scared. I don't care.''

''Christine, smile. You have such pretty lips, such pretty teeth.''

''You're the first to tell me such a thing.''

''It's true. Has no one complimented you thus before ?''

'Not really. Not like that.'' Hesitation. "Dad." A whispered confession. "But he does not count. Surely, you understand."

''I'll try. I didn't have a father myself.''

''Oh. How come ? Did he die ?''

''I don't know. Perhaps. But, Christine Daae, my matters aren't to be discussed. Tell me what's wrong ? Why creating this shell around you ?''

''Answer my question first.''

''And what sort of question will it be, dear girl ?''

''Why do you wear a mask?''

* * *

He told not to touch so she did not. The forbidden fruit. It intrigued her so, made her hand ache with the need to pull the deliciously taunting thing away. For some reasons his visage was to remain a blank slate as poor in truths as everything else about him. He still didn't have a name; _he_ wanted for her to call him monsieur. Monsieur. An appellation of the strangest nature. They weren't even in France. New York City as a matter of clarity. Yet, it did not all that matter to her. She condescended to all sorts of requests to learn a little more, hear his voice break, see his countenance destroyed. But he, he was French. Monsieur suited him; Christine didn't even imagine calling him otherwise, and of course there was- everything always ended up coming back to the mask. Her curiosity increased every day as she gazed at that white face for yes, his mask was a full-face one, made out of something white. It seemed soft. Perhaps it was porcelain. She never dared to touch it; she never dared to even ask. Again. He had made it very clear; she was not to approach him, _never_. She had to stay at least a meter away and – oh God forbid her – never initiate contact. Not that she wanted.

_Never_ was a word he liked. He always used it. He seemed to convince himself of something each time he spoke it, and the fashion in which he worshipped it was close to loving.

However she was not allowed to. A _why_ she had not been granted an answer to. It bothered Christine, it bothered her almost to no edn. _Monsieur_ ordered – yes, he actually ordered – for her to focus on the positive, on the good sides of life. For you see, he disliked greatly to see that pretty face of hers lit with something other than a smile. And so she did – with the mere exception of doing so whenever he wasn't around. Really, it only seemed natural because if she attempted to lie when with him, it was soon discerned and she lessoned. It killed her spirits to be an open book and so she was indeed trying to be happy, but it worked only away from him. Did it even made any sense? She supposed it did. Monsieur was a queer personage. Whenever she asked her father why he was that way, why he, her dad, made her go to him, he would only shake his shoulders and smile absentmindedly. It's for your best, that was always what he said. Always. The word _he_ liked her to say. It was odd.

They were two extremes and yet distantly adored each other. She never grasped the notion of how her father came to like the masked man.

Everything in her very life had a link with Monsieur. Christine wasn't even sure she pronounced the word right, but he seemed to enjoy hearing her stumble on the syllables, for he always smiled – well perhaps not smile because his lips could not be seen, but give a sign of contentment when she addressed to him. Some may have called the situation strange; Christine was just used to it.

Monsieur loved to talk with her, and only with her it seemed. He never tired of saying so, and sometimes a little fright crept out of that shell of hers. His tone was eagerly possessive, words sharp and to be obeyed. One might have addressed to a lap dog in such way. Was it what she was? A lap dog for his amusement? It was partially true, she guessed. He did control her and she did not always protest. And the matter wasn't about her fetching a glass of water whenever asked to do so, no, it went further. Christine denied requests of friends to go out when he insisted on seeing her for an additional appointment. She never refused; she feared it would cause his anger to flare. The temper he possessed wasn't a pretty one. Deep inside she just wished he would go away, disappear one bright day, and leave her be. But no. Every day he was there; in his office, his back to her, looking outside. Waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting. For her. Always for her. Not once, not even twice, did she wonder why he just didn't let her go. But everything one day comes crashing, and so her silence did reach its limits as well. So, like the foolish, young girl she was, one day Christine Daaé gathered enough gall to ask.

''Let me go,'' she pleaded in a quite tone, not daring to raise her head in risk of meeting a gaze she knew to be burning, ''I want to go out tonight.

And he was silent. ''Why ?''

The simplest of creatures could have answered. Because she had personal desires and wants, because she tired of being on a leash, because the rope had started to burn her neck. Yet she could dot and so stayed there, in her chair, gapping like a fish out of water. Her lungs screamed for oxygen, her mind for much-needed understanding which never came.

''Because I'm sixteen. I have a life, I want to go out with friends. What's wrong with that ? You keep me shut here all day long…I just have time to eat when I come back from school and then I have to rush here.''

''Sixteen, yes. Almost an adult, are we ? Pray tell then why your childish actions so often betray you. Now, now, dear, calm down, we don't want to see your depression come back.'' She couldn't recall ever having one. ''Good girl.'' Neither was she a puppy. "Now stop looking so upset. I'm doing this for your own good, Christine. Do you not know that by now I should have put you on pills? I keep postponing and postponing it; please do not make me act, at last. ''

She shook her head. No. ''I don't want to end up in an asylum.''

''Of course not. But you have to listen to my words, follow them to the letter, my darling, or else if not me, then someone else will make you visit this prison of white walls. And ironically enough, my Christine, I am the only one capable of saving your from it shall you indeed, as you put it, end up there. Now tell me how your day was. Who did you talk to? Who talked to you?''

That's how the talk about freedom, if only limited, left her with a bitter taste in the mouth. Not even her father reacted on parentally impulses when she told him – oh so many times – that the man was strange. He would smile, with a look so detached it pained her, pat her head in a fancy she remembered from childhood, and tell her it was for her that all this was done. Monsieur had said it too, more times than she cared to recall. Everything she loathed seemed to be for her own good. Her life was a bad satire.

He always called her _my Christine_. And now she didn't even protest the tender pet name; she was his indeed. He had claimed her, he had gained her. It was as simple as it was futile to search for a deeper meaning behind his eloquent phrases. It was frustrating. Christine just wished she never had had those mood swings a year ago so her father never would have booked a session with a psychologist. Psychiatrist – Monsieur corrected her later on.

Once, she did attempt to bring the subject of Monsieur into daylight.

''Dad, he wears a mask.''

He just had stared. ''Stop telling stories, Christine. He is a very kind man and he is very good to help you out with your problems.''

''I don't have any problems, dad. He wears a mask, did you hear me ? A full-faced mask. Only criminals do that. He's strange dad, I don't want to see him anymore. Please don't make me go there again.''

Christine could clearly remember him sighing greatly and rolling his eyes. It had angered her; it still did now. ''Oh Christine, you are speaking nonsense. A mask ? You must be joking. And you will continue seeing him; he is helping you a lot.''

''Don't tell me you've never seen him.''

''Of course I did. He doesn't wear a mask if that's what you asking.'' She gulped. Was she blind or indeed crazy? Would he put her on pills?

Christine had then played her finale ace. ''You don't even know his name. I still don't know it.''

''Of course I do,'' he had answered.

''What is it then ? I'm tired of calling him Monsieur.''

''I forgot. Go play Christine.''

And so he always sent her away every time she tried to talk with him about her peculiar doctor.

Of course Monsieur knew about the discussion she had with her father the next day. She hesitated between amazement and fright. Perhaps he was a magician; perhaps he not only knew how to make the picked card disappear, but also heard through walls. Like any other day she looked into his face; at his mask, blinking occasionally because her eyes hurt when dry and she so often forgot to even breathe when he was upset.

''You are tired of me already, my Christine?'' And back they were with the possessive tone. She wasn't a toy, however did not speak her thoughts out loud.

She shook her head; yes. There was no point in lying; Monsieur knew whenever she attempted to tell anything else but the truth.

''I think I am. I want to have a life. You don't let me have one.''

''I'm your doctor,'' pause, ''I keep your sanity intact,'' or was he destroying it, ''and if it happens to you to lose it along the way, you will never have a proper living. Didn't I tell you that I would always be there?''

''I'm not sure if I should take it as a menace or an odd definition of comfort,'' Christine spoke. ''I'm tired of all of this.''

''You'll never get rid of me, Christine, my Christine." The last word, a pleasant lilt.

She titled her head, a look of curiosity on her pale, tired face. ''Sounds like a threat, sir.''

''Merely a promise.'' But his tone was cold. A promise was a reassurance of the happening of a desired event; this did not resemble one.

''I'm not sure if I like this,'' she whispered. ''May I go to a party Saturday?'' This was risky ground. Saturday was the day that she usually spent with him alone. A fact which ceaselessly astonished her was that there was nothing psychological during those appointments. A sole Rorschach test would have put her mind at ease, but nothingness alone always met her. He would make her sit beside him on the couch, and then deft fingers would wander through her pale hair, caressing the tresses, making new ones. Sometimes, wordlessly, he would insist for her to lean against him, but she fought. Silently, Christine would refuse what he offered; his thin frame as a cushion, a bony bed. Oh, Monsieur was an awfully thin man. He would then sigh but his hands never retreated, and sometimes – and oh, how she loathed those moments – they would descend to her neck and palp the flesh there. Since she discovered how much he liked to touch her – though lines were never crossed - Christine began to wear high-collar shirts every accursed Saturday.

''Is there someone you are going with?'' he asked, weary. Nevertheless, the cold demeanor was a good sign for he hadn't bluntly refused as per habit.

''Meg, Meg Giry,'' quickly, she replied. ''She's my best friend, remember? We'll go to Ashley's place.''

Pause. She thought she heard a timeless clock mock her in the distance. Mayhap, it was his breathing.

''And what of paramours, Christine?''

And so the aforementioned Christine lied, ''None will be there. It's a girl's night. You know, popcorn, soda, romantic comedies.''

''Romantic comedies.'' The word he seemed to weight in the palm of one hand, and then carelessly discard after a fitting fate had been assigned. ''It's a tragedy, Christine. But wouldn't a good ending please your better?''

Sometimes he was more of a sphinx than of a devil.

''What ?''

''Christine, Christine, assure me that you are not lying, shamelessly lying while looking into my eyes.''

''I am not. You know when I do. Why would I?''

Just like a cruel father with a passion for forbidding, he leaned forward and a hand hovered into the air, promised to seize her chin, but did decide to remain a threat yet not in reach.

He spoke so softly, "Of course."

''What ?'' Again, her mouth was impotent for coherence.

And his smile was a tender one while he was eyeing her with that adoration she came to loathe. A step forward; one back; at last the thumb grazed the petal cheek. Christine jerked back, and turned her face away from him.

''You will not go to class on Monday.''

Disbelief – as for indignation she did not have the courage – darkened her feature. What did he say again? ''Excuse-me?'' Christine hissed. ''I beg your pardon? I have an English exam and I won't miss it.''

''I am afraid that you will. But you shan't be punished, my dear, for it happens that all I need to do to silence your teacher's remarks is to write a note.''

* * *

Ah, but at home she was free from containing emotions. They burst out of her, wild and violent.

''Dad!'' Her shrill cry was heard throughout the household. ''Dad ! What's Monsieur's hair colour?''

''What a bizarre question. Blond, if my memory is correct. Why ?''

Monsieur had black hair.

* * *

''I hope your day was most enjoyable, my dear.''

''It was, thank you Monsieur.''

''You're easily amused; it's a good thing. But do tell me of the details.''

''Meg got kicked out of class. We kept texting each other during Math class, and she got caught.''

''And you were not ?''

''I'm quicker. I hid my cell phone in my pocket before Mr. Jenkins could see it. I told you, I'm fast.''

''Clever thing, you are. Give me your cell phone.''

''I beg your pardon?''

''Your cell phone, Christine. This very instant, if you please.''

''Don't break it. Here. Hey! Don't look! It's private.''

''Oh look, you have a new voice mail. Shall we listen to it ?''

''No.''

''Yes, yes, of course we shall. How very interesting. It was from Gregory. Do you perchance know a boy named Gregory, my Christine ?''

''Yes, he's my science partner.''

''And what did I tell about male acquaintances?''

''I didn't have a choice. Mrs. Jones was the one to make the teams. If I could I would have been with Meg. She's stuck with Marianne. She's a nice, but somewhat weird girl.''

''I want you to keep your cell phone with you – always with you, wherever you go – during that party on Saturday. Am I clear?''

''What the hell has the party to do with you ?''

''Your language, my darling. I told you to do it, and therefore you will. Or do you want to miss a week of school? Bad character needs constant correction.''

''I'm pretty sure this isn't even legal anymore.''

''Christine, Christine, I make the rules.''

* * *

A little less than twenty-four hours were left. Christine saw awakening a new, strange fright caused by the unknown. She had seen Monsieur's anger in each of its stage, and the perspective of perhaps discovering a new one wasn't at all appealing. There were going to be boys, there were going to be brewages. Getting drunk was part of the plan. As a teenager, it was her duty to experience everything there was to experience, she had decided earlier. Monsieur would not be the one to stop her – not even dad held this power. His control and commands were tiring; rebellion could almost been seen crossing the border. He would call and ask questions, he would call and question her until she questioned herself. Before doubt came creeping, she unplugged her cell phone and threw it on her bed.

''…There will be James and Jordan too…Oh and yeah, the twins – they are hot – though I don't remember their names. I think it's Christopher and Andrew?''

''Christian,'' she corrected, ''Christian and Alexander. You were almost there, Meg.''

Her friend rolled her eyes. ''Whatever. Oh my God, and there will be this new hot boy too. I don't know his name.'' More rambling ensued, more useless rambling which actually helped her to calm down. ''Do you prefer Jack Daniels or Tequila?''

''Neither.''

She did however wonder whether she was fooling herself or not before forgetting about her worries.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

This was a matter of control.

Silent threats, shouted ones, or even those whispered in a tone too quiet to be called violent yet so obviously poisonous, were eating at her sense of safeness. If a decision was to be made, was it not hers to deal with ? Then under what pretext was it being caged away, and the key so brutally denied ? The need to reinstate a bit of her personal authority was consuming; she had to rebel. If only a little; a wee bit to feel whole.

And what was he to do, were he to decide to break her like a prized horse ? Pry her mouth open and pour some water down her throat to moisten it, and then quickly throw some pills while he was at it ? The possibility was cruel and frightening, but truth be told she had come to expect it. At least, there would be no surprises.

Oh, she could disobey. There were no questions of her not being able to. Until now, it had been her mind that would calm down all internal storms. His grip was one of iron, but did not exist or extend outside the walls of his office. Defy the authority, disregard and spit on the rules, could be done, and quite easily so – but what if all in the end was recounted ? He would end up knowing, and that very knowledge would choke her. He appeared to be informed of things that were by all means private, of words which had a life but in her house.

The sole idea of him having this kind of power reeked insanity.

Or perhaps, she at last was going mad.

She refused to believe in the promise that he had eyes everywhere. It simply sounded demented. But while denial was there, it was not alone eating at her mind. Somewhere, not too far away, contemplation was to be found. What if all he said was true ? What if he indeed could hear words not meant for his ears ?

As a careful, frenzied, precaution, she had borrowed an outfit from her friend. Even her shoes had been kicked to the side and replaced which did not exactly fit her in size. But in the aftermath, she felt an odd aura of comfort enveloping her and opted against declaring the idea foolish and putting on something of her own.

Talks of madness had grown on her.

"Are you ready ?" Meg asked, addressing her reflection in the mirror. She brushed her hair one last time, forcing dark curls to abide to her will and turn to waves.

"Yeah, I suppose," she said back. Nervous excitement was welling up inside of her, making replies slurry and behaviour erratic. "What's that bag ?"

"It's yours, I'm taking it."

The thing was shyly eyeing its master from the corner of the room, hiding behind a pile of clothes. Picking it up, Christine ran her hand along the lean expense of the fake leather.

"Don't," she whispered. "Leave it at home, Meg."

"Why ?"

She could vaguely recall lending the accessory, could remember not seeing it ever since and paying no heed to its fate. Now it was before her, and all she desired was for it to remain upon the dusty floor.

"Just take another one," she told her. "You have many others."

"Jealous of me having it ?"

"Of course."

The argument didn't go any further, and for this she was grateful. How was one to rationalize absurdity, to make drivel mathematical and out of it create equations with the potential to _explain_ ? With Meg not pushing the matter, she felt sweet relief.

A faceless crowd, people she did not know but who approached to embrace her, girls offering compliments left and right – every young person of New York seemed to be present. Meg was at ease, a beautiful social butterfly; she trotted behind, answering whenever spoken to. But still it was nice. There was delight in feeling normal.

After a first candied drink, she relaxed. After a second, a blush claimed residence upon her cheeks.

"He's in my calculus class."

Meg's sudden, calm statement broke through the fog around her. Christine stared at the boy her friend was referring to. She could as well have been gazing into a mirror to see her male counterpart. He looked kind, strangely perplexed, with the phantom of annoyance written across his features.

And then he was joined by a girl neither of them adored.

"Charlie," Meg spoke aloud.

"Ah."

No contentment within them.

The star every school possessed, she appeared to have followers everywhere. From the hallways of the education establishment they all frequented to the city mall – there always seemed to be a person ready to rush to her side with greetings, air kisses, apocryphal flattery.

"Well, she owes me one – or even five. I can interrupt any conversation I want."

And so she followed Meg. Because that's what she always did. Obey. Follow. Christine was vaguely aware of the fact that the boy's eyes were on her. On them. Subtle but unwavering. Someone offered her a drink; pink and sweet, it was. Sugar assaulted her mouth and she frowned a little. Better sugar than alcohol, she supposed, in the end.

"Never met anyone named Raoul before." Charlie's laughed confession reached them. "Like Fidel Castro's brother." Uncomfortable silence. "I'm sorry. That was a really bad joke."

"Yes," Meg agreed, "it was."

But her grin spoke otherwise. No accusation in that gesture, no hatred in her eyes. She embraced the other girl and pressed her lips to her cheek.

"How are you ? Say hi to Christine. You two know each other, right ?"

However, there was no greeting sent her way. Merely a tensed smile – a lost attempt at politeness.

"Yeah. We have English together," Charlie said.

All attention diverted, she stepped away. Breathed a little. Tried to find amusement in this bedlam. It found her. The boy twirled around on his heels, walked towards her, and extended forth a glass of soda.

"That's all I could find. Sorry."

"It's all right," she said. "I'm Christine."

He was quick to answer. "I know." Then, shook his head. "I'm not a creep or anything, I just heard your friend saying it. What's your last name ?"

A bit of an odd conversation starter but she tagged alone. "Daae. Think of 'die' and the letter A. Combine them together. It sounds stupid but people are never capable of pronouncing it correctly."

"I understand. Raoul is bad enough; now add de Chagny to it and you've got yourself a pompous, pretentious excuse of a name."

She chuckled. "It's not that bad."

Raoul smirked. "In our day and age, it is."

His parents were dead, his brother considerably older and head of the household. It was impressive how much one could learn about a person in five minutes.

"Daae, Daae," he muttered for quite some time. "I swear it's familiar."

"My father is a lawyer. Fairly well-known."

"Well then," Raoul smiled again and took the empty glass away from Christine, "I think my brother used to work with him."

Talking about her father, their family name, and the difficulty the calculus class represented turned out to be more than pleasant.

* * *

She was awake.

She was wearing clothes which weren't hers and she was awake.

She could also faintly recall drinking something blue, something red, and locking herself and Meg in one of the spare rooms to sleep.

"You look awful..."

And so did her friend.

She blinked. Once more. The clock on the wall was mocking her. It could not be this late – and yet somehow the truth kept confirming itself. The time was the same on her cell phone. On the laptop someone had left on the ground.

Ignoring the upcoming headache, Christine ran out of the house.

A long coat and snickers were her sole attempt at decent covering. Usually, judgemental looks would have hurt as a whip, but she valiantly ignored them.

And when she finally knocked at his door and let her eyes drop as a shamed child, he only recited a passage from the Bible.

''_And Judas Iscariot, one of the twelve, went unto the chief priests, to betray him unto them.''_

He offered her his hand.

She gazed at it as though it was an animal, quiet for the time being but dangerous in the long run. Cold skin. Long fingers closing around her wrist. There never were any options playing by her side in this game. Either she took it or he dropped the pretence at courtesy and reached out himself.

She watched him. Watched as he bid her to sit. Watched as he took a place next to hers. Watched as his palm pressed against her cheek.

Retreated. Fell to his thigh.

"Alcohol," he murmured, "is quite a demon. Christine, did I not tell you that ?"

He had told her so many things. Good and bad. Passionate, interesting, enthralling even. As well as chilling to the bone. She opened her mouth and then closed it. Nodding was a safer route.

"There is no fooling me."

No, there wasn't.

"Anyone could have taken advantage of you," he remarked.

She shook her head. "But they didn't."

"-even someone like me."

"Water, please ?"

Those yellow eyes came to life, fuelled by her wariness. The corners of the mask rose ever so slightly. He was laughing that silent laugh, once more. And did not cease even as he got up, backed away, and disappeared from her view. The cold of his touch still gnawed at her sanity. Upset it.

Anger she could handle, however this little wordless madness she could not. Christine rose and made way to the door. The doorknob was a stubborn little thing. It protested in her grasp, refused to take orders from anyone but its master. A headache began pounding at her head. Christine closed her eyes for the briefest second. What bliss it would have been to simply get into a bed an turn all lights down. And not think. Not think, not think, not think. About anything or anyone.

"So eager to leave ? Come back here for you are trembling."

There was no surprise in her as his voice broke through the silence. Of course, he caught her. He was best at everything. After all, Monsieur had that rare, deranged talent: he knew what people were about to do before the actual idea hit them. A twisted ability to read their minds, one might have called it.

_Shrik, _as the glass of water was set on the table of the living room. She stared at it with hungry eyes, her throat suddenly raw.

"Come," he said again, his voice smiling, "come forth."

She did. She took a solitary step towards him and stopped. This was a sick game they were playing. It needed to stop and she had no idea how to bring that said end. The voice of reason entreated her to get away, but the one of simplicity urged forward. It was simpler.

"I have a test on Monday," she whispered, frantic. "I need to study. I really do."

It did not work. "I shall help you." She looked away. "I am the adult and in charge. It is part of my duty to assist you."

"Really, I'll be fine by myself." Already, defeat was approaching. Roaring, cackling.

"No, no, I insist. Why are you so shy ? Have we not known each other for quite a while now ?"

She sat beside him; he put his arm around her. She was past this, past this fright and scare. Sometimes, the contact was unsettling, odd even, but never truly horrifying. She supposed she was slowly becoming as mad as him. His grip tightened and that did displease her. Christine struggled, pushed him away. He did not let go.

And then there was something pressing against her lips. His fingers. "Take this," he whispered. "For your migraine. You must be tired, so tired. Would you like some water ?"

The pill slipped onto her tongue, began dissolving almost immediately. Its taste was so bitter that she acquiesced immediately. He gave her the long-awaited glass of water. While he wasn't looking, she tried to spit it out.

"Don't." And she didn't. "It's for your migraine," he murmured again. "You are hurting..." His hand lightly massaged her throat.

The water washed away the bitterness.

"Stop touching me."

It came out unexpectedly, without reason. She was relaxed, her work forgotten, but that one thought kept nagging at her mind. His hands at her shoulders weren't comforting. Nor was his breath – crushing, crushing, crushing it came against her neck.

He did. Because despite everything, there was that ounce of gentlemanliness in him. He was as refined as he was rare; polished and strange. Monsieur pinned her to her sit with his eyes.

"Does he have a name ?"

Christine squinted. "Excuse me ?"

"Your knight," he explained, "does he have a name ?"

"There is no knight," she said.

He laughed, waggled a finger before her face. It settled on her nose, caressed it lightly. "Of course there is. And you will tell me his name."

"Raoul."

"What a nice name."

"Oh, yes."

The mask kissed her forehead. "I hope there never will be again an opportunity for you to speak it."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

No point in flogging a dead horse. The matter was resolved, the result singular. As for every question in this world only one exact answer existed. For a name to never be spoken there must be no opportunity to see its owner.

_Don't see him again_, his elegant voice hadn't said but heavily suggested.

Do not.

Again.

Twisted, scattered, reassembled. No matter the order, no pleasant combination could be created. It made her sad and angry, so angry at her lack of power and the overabundance of _his_.

And Raoul was as handsome as he was kind. Quite gorgeous, winningly gentle. Losing him even before getting him seemed tragically unfair.

There was always one last defense, the one of the idiot and as old as the world itself: forgetfulness. Fatigue and annoyance had mixed that last day and she didn't hear, didn't quite understand the order. And how was he to know what occurred outside his walls ? She finally found a way to take off her leash and collar.

Christine smiled and laughed.

* * *

"_Christine, wait !"_

_She turned around and saw Raoul, chest heaving and cheeks flushed. His jog came to an end as he caught up with her. It felt ridiculously nice not to have to raise her head to look someone in the eyes. Little bits of happiness._

"_Yes ?" she asked softly, timidly._

"_You've got intro to western history with Mr. Goodman, don't you ?"_

_Disappointment and slight anger at once robbed her face of a smile. Raoul was fidgety, his hands moist and glistening as light caressed them. The perfect depiction of a nervous schoolboy. _

_She nodded. "I do."_

"_Great. Do you want to go out sometime ?"_

"_Friday sounds awesome."_

* * *

Of course, because of his presence in her life she didn't have one, properly speaking. The thought of damning it all to hell once eighteen had consumed her mind more than once. But then there was the fact that she was so..._used to him_.

"For her good, yes,"

Her father's quiet voice flew up the stairs, crept into her room. Christine exhaled, willing herself to calm down. Gustav's voice was a pleasant distraction; it was soft and melodic, almost identical to the airs he coaxed out of his violin once in a while.

He was downstairs, having returned from work but a half hour ago. She'd already spied him brewing a second coup of coffee.

"Keeps me alive," he'd wink at her whenever she teased him about it.

Christine went down and headed to the living room when he intercepted her. Gustav caught his daughter around the waist, planted an exaggerated kiss to her temple while she struggled, all while never letting go of his phone.

"I don't believe I've received them yet." He smiled at her. "Christine, be a dear, check my study for any mail."

He did have three or four unopened envelopes sitting on his desk. She shuffled through them and the overall mess of legal documents, notebooks, and phone chargers (one for the car, one for anywhere, one for god-knows-what.) A particular envelope was larger than the others, addressed to Gustav Daae, looking very official and serious. It had been sealed, but Christine took an opener and sliced through the sides. A paper fell out.

And the cat was out of the bag.

Two notions caught her attention. Last will and Testament, was the first. Guardianship, was the second. He stomach did a funny dance; a coal-hot stone had been dropped in it, making her uneasy. She felt rather than saw color drain from her face.

"Dad," Christine called. Then, with more force, "Dad !"

It hadn't been for her eyes to see, but now that they had there was no forgetting the image. Christine held the paper and her hand was shaking.

There were a lot of normal families – theirs was not part of the lot. A normal family included a happily married couple, two kids and a dog, along with at least a pair of old grandparents making cookies somewhere on the east coast. A single father with no relatives whatsoever, and a socially awkward daughter: that's who they were. She had friends, and he had colleagues, but behind closed doors they were ultimately alone. Losing him meant losing everything.

It's not like he was abandoning her, and the mere idea was ludicrous. A part of her however had already begun fearing the future.

"A legal guardian," she said as he came through the door. "_A legal guardian ?_"

At first, Gustav frowned. "You went through my mail ?" But seeing how unsettled she'd become upset him in the end. "Oh, Christine..."

"I was curious," she said in a quiet voice. "I'm sorry." She really was. Sorry for discovering it.

He murmured something into the handset and focused on her. "Please calm down."

Her father came close and lifted her as he used to do when she was little. Christine found herself sitting on top of his desk, documents sticking to her moist hands, when he took a place by her. Her legs were dangling, his were not.

"Why ?"

"In case I get hit by a car." He smiled but she didn't smile back. It wasn't a matter to joke about.

Christine sighed. "Don't say things like that."

He ruffled her hair. "Superstitious. Just like your mother."

She ignored that part too. Her mother was a subject Christine preferred never to bring up. She didn't remember her. Whenever people would tell her she was her spitting image, she'd thank them and continue on with her day. She couldn't conjure even a single memory, let it be good or bad; being compared to a ghost didn't sit well with Christine. It was as though an impossible standard existed, and all her expected to reach it.

"Who is it ?" she asked. "Mamma Valerius ? An unknown relative ? Some long-lost aunt ?"

Mamma Valerius was a kind old woman who painted her nails pink, and bought ridiculously expensive clothes. She was the closest thing to a grandmother Christine had ever come to have. In her youth, she'd played piano, later forsaking it for medicine. But she'd never forgotten the craft, and had given Gustav's daughter, her then lawyer neighbor, free lessons. They'd stayed friends.

"Mrs. Valerius is a frail woman." It was just another way of saying 'old' and 'won't last a day'. "No, it's a personal friend of mine. Someone I trust entirely."

"How come I've never met him, then ? Or her."

He was thinking. She knew this look all-too well. His head titled, his mouth slightly parted. "You will," Gustav promised.

The phone was ringing again. It was the third time since he'd come back. He had to take it – of course. Christine watched him depart, the kiss he'd left on her cheek burning like his promise.

* * *

She hated it when he forced her to speak.

No, he'd never held a knife to her throat while crying "Truth or your life !" He simply had a talent. Everyone was born with one, and his was convincing anyone to tell him exactly what he wanted to hear. Perhaps it was a combination of his warm and beautiful voice, the kindness that somehow appeared in his eyes, and the silence that followed afterwards. Usually, it was heavy. After he forced words out of her, it was just silence. Not threatening, not frightening. _Simple._

Today, was no different. After then minutes, she poured her soul out to him. And when her tirade ended, he was surprisingly brief.

"Delusion."

"What ?"

"Delusion," Monsieur repeated, taking her hand. He traced the back of it with one gloved finger. "A fixed belief that is either false, fanciful, or derived from deception. It exists even if" - his eyes ran over her face, as if he wished to add something else, but deciding against it - "there is strong evidence of the contrary."

She let her hand rest in his, a little, dead thing. "What are you trying to say ?" Asking questions was a habit too. When he didn't speak in riddles, he opted for professional jargon.

"I wouldn't go as far as to suggest that you're obsessed with your father, but you...ah, fear losing him more than any girl your age."

"Everyone is scared of the possibility of losing a parent," Christine argued.

He shook his head. "Girls your age are scared of the possibility of not going to prom. So what that you saw this paper ? If it does mean something, it's only that your father is looking out for you. Every concerned parent has already done the same the instant their child had been born. Yours merely waited a few years."

"No, you don't understand-"

"Delusion."

This time the silence wasn't comforting. She felt him look her over; he'd unbuttoned his jacket before sitting down and underneath it, even with a vest in the way, it was easy to see just how lean he was. _Thin_. Up, up, up, and a neck scarf concealed his pale throat from view. He was very elegant, and even more intimidating. Ghastly – whenever she stared at his mask. An interesting thing it was; what it was made of, Christine could not say, but she would've guessed porcelain. Milk white and covering his whole face from forehead to jaw. The way it expanded upwards suggested prominent cheekbones. Or maybe he was just as thin of face as he was of body.

He was a picture of everything at once: professionalism, strangeness, awe, and fright.

"I believe it will benefit you to stay away from him," he said. "For a limited time."

"Well, at least, that's not for you to decide." It came out unexpectedly. Christine didn't know what possessed her to adopt such boldness, but now there was no taking the words back.

The mask slid up his face as though he were arching his brows, his voice caught in his throat for a long minute. "Don't talk to me like that. I'm not your father, nor am I your friend."

_Now_ it was truly uncomfortable. When before his hand had lovingly toyed with hers, at present his fingers had decided to dig into her skin, leaving her no choice but to stay close. She watched as his already dark eyes darkened even more, and felt dread tug at her heart.

He was odd, but he always put her on a pedestal whereas others ignored her. Somehow, upsetting him hurt _her_.

"I'm sorry," Christine said softly.

"Yes." He released her hand, caught it again with his other own, the grip as gentle as young spring. "You genuinely are."

Monsieur leaned into her then, and she didn't move. His ever-still lips caressed her cheek, cold, and smooth, and familiar.

"And that's what makes you different."

* * *

It was Friday and nothing in the world would stop her from going out with Raoul. Well, a tornado being an exception. Christine checked herself one last time in the mirror and smiled when her father yelled – he had the tendency to consider her deaf by times, which was quite amusing – that some young man was waiting for her. He'd comically emphasized 'young man', and she knew what awaited her downstairs.

"Aw, aw, aw," he chanted as she stormed past him. "Look, you're blushing."

"Dad..."

"No, really," he insisted, playing with her hair. "All right, leave the old man to his work and go see your boy. What a sweet couple you two make. He's blushing too !"

Gustav could make anyone queasy. He had a large vocabulary, but when it came to his daughter he seemed to favor all words and sentences that made him look as immature as possible.

Raoul had a car. Had her father known that beforehand he might have not been as eager to push her into his arms. Christine climbed in the passenger seat, feeling like a queen. It was a new model – one which screamed 'look at me' - but Raoul was obviously embarrassed driving it.

"A gift from my brother," he explained. "He's very..."

"Generous," Christine suggested with a smile.

He laughed. "Or that."

The drive to the movies was pleasant. She laughed whenever he spoke to her, and when they climbed out to examine the billboard, he asked what she wanted to see.

"No blood if possible," Christine said. "Anything that's even remotely close to a horror movie. I can't stomach that stuff."

"Make that two," he agreed. "My favorite movie is the Pink Panther. There, you know my style. Sue me. God, I love it. I was on a plane and the guy next to me was watching it too. Sure thing, he laughed and then switched to another feature. Not me, though, oh no. The movie came to an end ? Replay ! I was laughing like an idiot at the same jokes over and over and over again. If it'd been a bus, I would have been kicked out."

She felt so good in his company. For the first time in months, Christine fully relaxed. Her shoulders sank, but her lips tightened. When she wasn't grinning, she stifled chuckles. It was so wonderful to feel normal. Forget, if only for a night, her doctor, the letter on her father's desk, the fact that she missed school more than anyone else.

Raoul was a gentleman, she decided when afterward he awkwardly hugged her. A part of her longed for a kiss. Wasn't that how successful dates ended ? But then she saw his fidgeting hands, noticed her own, afflicted by the same pain, and thought that with him this was a perfect one. Not successful, but _perfect_.

"Are you coming to class of Monday ?" he asked.

"Yes, yes of course," she assured him.

"Do you want to have lunch together ?"

Christine would have been lying if she hadn't admitted to herself that the prospect of seeing Charlie's astonished face crossed her mind. But that was only a minor detail. She really did want to spend the lunch hour with him.

Raoul's phone started ringing. _Annoying, annoying, Phil_, it sang in an electronic voice, _annoying, annoying Phil_. The screen displayed the picture of a handsome man who shared Raoul's pale hair and blue eyes. His brother, Christine realized.

He sighed. "I have to take this."

"No worries."

Finally he came back, announcing that he had to go. That was good because so did she. She'd already stayed past curfew. Gustav would scold her but otherwise wouldn't make a big deal out of it, she knew. He drove her home, and even got out to open the door as she climbed out.

''See you Monday, I guess,'' Raoul said and leaned slightly forward as if to kiss her. Christine's breath got stuck in her throat, and she closed her eyes in anticipation, when suddenly the air around her face was cold again, not warmed by Raoul's breath.

"Monday," she repeated, and he hugged her another time.

* * *

What possessed her to skip the appointment, Christine could not tell. A sudden dose of bravado. Rare courage. The why didn't matter.

She sat in Meg's room as her friend curled her hair. Their first two classes had been canceled so they got to both sleep in and get ready without hurrying.

"Since when do you care about how you look for school ?"

"Does it matter ?"

"Since I'm asking." Meg waggled the curling iron before Christine's face, comically threatening to burn her with it. "Tell me all your secrets," she said in a ridiculous voice. "It's Raoul, isn't it ?"

Rolling her eyes, Christine succumbed. The girl ought to have considered a career in the FBI. She could extract information out of anyone.

"Okay, okay. I do like him."

She had a message she hadn't yet checked. She also knew who it was from, having neglected it for the past hour and knowing, with absolute certainty, it being the reason behind her jumpiness. Her hands itched to grab the damnable thing and throw it out of the window. But that wouldn't be smart.

"Mom's giving us a ride," Meg said somewhat unhappily. "I know you guys like to talk, but please don't exclude me this time. Okay, hurry we have to go, now."

"All right, I'm coming."

With Meg out of the room, Christine caved. A part of her still clung to the hope that it was someone else. Raoul, maybe. Jessica from English. But no, the number on the screen was an all-too familiar one. He rarely left her messages; if he did, he bothered to say a few words. Texts, it seemed, were beneath him.

He had sent her one, though, and it was nothing. A blank page, in terms of words. Otherwise, there happened to be something for her to see: a reminder of what his number was. It shone bright blue on the screen, highlighted, begging to be clicked and therefore dialed. This little gesture meant more than all his rants.

Christine's finger gravitated towards the keypad. In a heartbeat, she selected the number.

It rang exactly three times before he picked up.

His voice was as composed as ever. There was even a certain cheeriness to it as he spoke her name. "Christine, how are you today ?"

"I'm well," she answered, on the ready but relieved. "I'm sorry, I can't come today."

"Oh, is that so ?" He was mocking her. That's where the amicability was coming from. "I have a 24-hour cancellation policy, you know."

"I know," she murmured. "But I have an exam." A white lie. It wouldn't hurt anyone.

"Exams can be rescheduled," Monsieur affirmed.

"Appointments as well," Christine countered.

"Not with me, dear."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

He scattered a bunch of papers on the coffee table. Languidly. Slowly. But she did not look. His handwriting was thin, as though he were afraid to press on the pen, and ridiculously unruly. It flew along the lines in small, cursive hieroglyphs. Perhaps it was true, she thought as she looked at him, what they said about doctors.

Sighing, Monsieur gathered them once more.

He lifted the file he only rarely had at hand when she came, and leaned into her. Their knees touched, she drew in a shaky breath, and the moment lingered. He wasn't going anywhere, Christine understood. The file was a dead thing in his grip, ready to fall to the floor at any time.

Maybe that's what he wanted.

She bumped her shoulder into his.

His eyes smiled; his lips, she could not see.

The papers leaped out like living things. There weren't even any paperclips in sight that could have held them together.

"Oh dear," his beautiful voice murmured.

"I'll help," she offered uncertainly.

"Please do," he said, and didn't move.

She dropped to her knees like a rock, before he changed his mind. A small, square photograph of her unhappy face rested on the top of his shoe. She didn't bother with it, choosing instead to move on to more interesting matters.

Personal history. The medical one. Random notes. Terms psychiatrists alone understood. And then something that sparked her interest. It'd been scribbled in a hurried hand upon a brand new post-it. She knew that because the glue one the back was still fresh, and clung to her fingertips.

Dissociative Identity Disorder.

Christine looked up at him.

"Oh, Christine," he said, his tone all surprise and mock glee. "My dear, my darling, there is a new theory I need to discuss with you."

His gloved hands were before her face then, thin fingers stretched as far as they'd go, palms flat and waiting. She accepted the offer of help and was back on the couch, this time a healthy, professional distance separating the two of them.

"Well then." Monsieur crossed his legs and smoothed his thin hair, as was custom before a rant. "I do believe that there's a problem. Oh yes, oh yes. Not mere depression, as your father had thought. You, Christine, are making up things. Living other lives."

She frowned. "With all due respect, I am not."

His voice rose. Still as calm, but more forceful, it bounced around the apartment. "But you are. The Christine I know would never seek the company of... undesired individuals. She'd weigh the pros and cons, and choose the right thing." He playfully almost touched the tip of her nose, _almost_, but decided against it. "She'd go with what is best for her."

Christine felt the full weight of his insinuation. He talked so elegantly, elusively, never giving away any compromising information, but making his point clear. His last few words had been nothing but _Raoul, Raoul, Raoul_ to her ears.

A place behind her right eye began to throb.

She turned her head away.

Maybe silence was the option.

But he was still there, in her peripheral vision, and, somehow, his own silence unnerved her even more. She wanted to apologize, but did not know for what. Wanted to creep closer, like a faithful dog, and watch his mask risk then fall. That's how he made her feel: utterly ridiculous.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Do you need help ?" he said evenly. "Psychologists heal with words. I'm not a psychologist, Christine."

He left her to herself and headed into the kitchen. She listened to his _beautiful, beautiful_ voice as he hummed yet another foreign melody. How many did he know ?

Christine stood up. Walked back and forth. Her hands curled into fists, unclenched. Outside, it was raining. One raindrop, two raindrop, one hand playing with her hair -

She turned around and was met with the sight of his chest. He titled his head to look down at her, the amber eyes a simple bright brown thanks to the lack of light. Monsieur presented her with a glass of water. She watched the drink swirl in the glass, complete with exactly three cubes of ice. Nothing seemed to have been dissolved in it. Christine took a hesitant sip, but tasted only the cold as it bit her teeth.

"To your liking ?" he asked.

"Yes," she murmured.

He bid her to sit and so she did. That's all they ever did: sit. Sometimes, he'd get so lost in his thoughts that she would have to remind him of her presence.

He always stared at her, during those times. Christine didn't know why she bothered talking at all. It's not like he ever forgot that she was in the room.

When Monsieur joined her, something in his pocket rattled. Immediately, she was on the ready, almost spilling water on the – she suspected – expensive couch.

"What's that ?"

He laughed. "What's what ?"

"_That_." She touched his breast, and felt an oval-shaped _thing_ protrude through the material. "What is it ?"

"Oh, that," he said, but remained perfectly still.

The throbbing returned full force. She forced herself to gulp down some of the water.

"That would be the plan of action. Oh, the sun is coming out."

Christine didn't look out the window. "Please, please talk normally."

His eyes softened. "Of course, my angel. This" - he reached into his breast pocket to retrieve the mystery item "-is how _I_ treat. Everyone has their own weapon of choice, is that not so ?"

His humor was wasted on her as she watched him depose a pill bottle onto the coffee table. It was yellow, like the kind seen in bad movies, and very much ominous. Christine read the name on the sticker aloud, but stumbled on each syllable, every quarter of the word, so long it was. Bile rose up her throat and a distant memory swam onto the stage of her mind. He'd hugged her, awkwardly and clumsily, after she'd come to him in tears. Stupid occurrence at school. Oddly enough, he hadn't known how to react.

She wished for _that_ man again. Comforting despite the rare lack of elegance.

"What is that ?" Her voice came out shaky and low.

"The Christine I know," he began, "would never wander off with suspicious people. Let them be men or women," he added with haste. "But what a change. What a spectacular, terrifying change. We must rectify that."

He cracked the lid open, and popped a pill into her water. She watched as it hit one cube of ice after another, before finally sinking. After a few minutes, it looked like a swollen bit of rag paper. Monsieur pushed it toward her, and Christine shied away from the glass. Her back met the couch's armrest, halting her escape, and she nearly fell over.

"Do be careful," he advised gently. "I hate to see you hurt."

And the worst thing was that he wasn't lying.

He wasn't your ordinary John Doe. Something about him was off. Christine had always known it, but somehow the full extent of it hit her only now. Like a savage punch to the face. She saw him in the right light, and he appeared in his true form: refined, polished, and dangerous. Falling from the couch wouldn't save her. Even falling from the surface of the earth might not.

She kicked the table, and the glass spilled.

The rug absorbed the water.

Christine fled the other way – to him.

"I'll be good," she promised, knowing it's what he wanted to hear.

He sighed before saying in his gentlest voice, "But you are always perfect, Christine."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"Christine, open the door, please," Gustav cooed.

Christine eyed her nightstand, trying to judge its weight from a distance. Surely it couldn't be that heavy...Leaning against it proved her wrong. The window was open, so she closed it as well. Might as well, right ?

_If you go paranoid, then go all the way_. That sounded like something Meg would say.

"Christine, tell me what's wrong !" The nervousness in his tone crept under the door, and sent shivers down her spine. "I made pancakes. Come out."

She stifled a laugh despite the seriousness she tried so hard to maintain. "Dad, your cooking skills are average at best. Buy me a car and then we'll talk about temptation." She'd never ask anything of the sort from him, but at this moment Christine needed a fitting retort.

She climbed into her bed, drew the blankets over her head, and closed her eyes. The darkness did nothing to calm her racing heart. It was still frantically thumping in her chest, a wild thing with a life of its own. On the other side of the door, silence had stolen Gustav's tongue.

She waited for him to say something, anything at all, and at the same time prayed he'd go away. Not believing her was bad enough... Christine didn't want to get into a confrontation with her own father. He argued for a living, there was no winning against him.

"You're overreacting." A reasonable point.

"I'm not." A harsher-than-intended answer.

Hostility wasn't her strongest suit. She immediately felt bad for raising her voice.

"Christine, honey, research shows that death by starving is the most painful one there is."

"Research lies."

"Research is called research for a reason."

Even when he didn't make sense he still won. She sighed, exasperated, and threw the covers aside. They landed on the floor in a messy, colorful puddle.

She lingered by the doors. Her hand hovered above the doorknob, trying to decide whether to twist it open or leave it be. Eventually, the latter triumphed. She returned to her bed, but was unable to remain sited much longer, opting instead to pace restless circles around it.

Ultimately Gustav left, and Christine had worked herself into a fine fury.

How could _he_ be aware of things his eyes had never seen ? How could _he_ be everywhere ? Those questions had kept her awake all night long.

Her throat was dry. She swallowed a couple of times too much. Maybe she was just as crazy as her family believed. Maybe those suspicions were but a delusion.

Well, at least Monsieur couldn't come after her here, to set her mind straight. He enjoyed his anonymity to a fault; she doubted he even went outside. Hell, her father didn't even know his name. Oh, he said that he did but Christine could see beyond that pretense. His memory was impeccable, his greatest asset and instrument. He was a lawyer after all. And yet, he'd somehow failed to remember a thing as simple as a name (and had never asked for again.)

Christine wasn't the sort to demand the impossible, yet Monsieur couldn't even give her a thing as simple as that.

"_What's his name, dad, what's his name ?"_

"_Honey, I've already told you !"_

Being with him was an alternative she infinitely preferred to dying in her room. Christine opened the door just a crack, and saw a tray of food on the floor. Orange juice and pancakes. She flipped one over to discover that the lower side was partially burnt.

"Of course," she muttered, a smile tugging at her lips.

As she ate – and she had to admit to herself that Gustav's meal wasn't half bad when paired with a lot of syrup – Christine mentally assured herself that today she'd enjoyed a certain victory. At least now, her father knew that something was wrong. He would learn to read between the lines.

She checked her phone for missed calls. Countless messages from Meg (Save me, I'm shopping with mom) and a voice-mail from Raoul. Her heart fluttered as she entered her password to listen to his voice.

Pocket dial, and then, "Christine ! It's Raoul. I was just worried You didn't show up at school. So call me, if you want. It's Raoul. I think I've already said that."

He'd left it for her mere fifteen minutes ago. She restrained herself from calling back immediately, afraid of appearing desperate. Teenage protocol, you see.

The next call was from Monsieur. She recognized the unfamiliar string of numbers as a giveaway. He always changed cell phones.

This was odd in itself as he almost never bothered waiting for the _bip_.

"_I don't like the idea of my voice being recorded."_

"_That's a shame. You have such a beautiful one. I could listen to it all day."_

"_Would you like to ?"_

Please return the call, darling.

That was all.

How brief and... expected. The screen flashed a final time before going dark. She hesitated for an instant that felt like eternity.

Despite everything, he was still the most interesting person she'd ever met. To her, he spoke with gentleness; but the again, Christine hadn't seen him interact with anyone else. He treated her like a jewel, and that was really something. In his presence, she felt _cherished_. His compliments were never half-felt, but genuine to the point it made her blush.

She hit the redial button before she knew it.

Four dial tones later and, for some unfathomable reason, she shook with anxiety. Why wasn't he answering ? Why ?

"Christine, dear."

All tension escaped her body. She hated herself for feeling that way, for being so weak.

"You called," she said. "I'm...ah...calling back."

"I want to apologize for being rude. My actions were unnecessary. I was unkind to you, and you should never again be treated like that. Will you forgive me ?"

It was as though he were in the room with her. Christine pressed her back to the wall.

Instead of saying anything intelligible, she parroted, "Apologize ?"

"Apologize, yes," he confirmed with a soft laugh. "To you, my dear. Please come back. You deserve all the gentleness in the world, and I promise to give it to you."

Without really knowing why, but loving the calming warmth enveloping her body, Christine agreed. He just had that effect on her.

* * *

"Christine !"

_Don't turn around._

"Christine, wait !"

_Walk. Walk. And walk some more, Christine._

Finally, he caught up with her. The boy who'd made her heart flutter with a single voice-mail blocked her way. His concerned expression was nearly too much to handle. He put his hand on her shoulder, and she flinched; he tried prying words out of her, but failed.

Finally, Raoul resorted to walking by her side. Walking together to school wouldn't count as anything, she argued with herself.

"You've been avoiding me," he stated the obvious.

Christine only shrugged, infusing the gesture with as much nonchalance as possible. "Raoul, I can't talk. Not right now."

"Then how about tonight ?

"Homework."

"And tomorrow ?"

"More homework."

It was for the best.

He stopped following her when they reached his classroom.

"Can I call you ?" a hint of worry and annoyance had crept into his tone.

She caved. "Yes. Call me."

That would have to be enough to keep their brittle friendship afloat. For now.

* * *

After finishing with biology, Christine found Gustav waiting outside for her. She trotted to him with a smile. He held the car door open for her, bowing as though she were a princess. Laughing quietly to herself, she jumped onto the passenger seat.

Some of the joy at seeing her father dispersed when she remember where they were going. Some, but not all. The day had been too good for a promise of a possible conflict to steal all of it. She drummed her fingers along her thigh, glancing in the rear-view mirror. Gustav's eyes –her eyes – every so often winked at her.

There was a red light, and he cursed when not making it.

"Won't you come up with me today ?" she asked suddenly. "Wouldn't you like to meet the man who treats your daughter ?"

"Honey, I know him very well," Gustav murmured in his we've-been-over-this-before voice. "He's a fine man, really."

"Pale hair, regular features ?" she imitated him.

He rolled his eyes at her. "_Without a mask_." He honked at the car in front of them.

The tall building was in sight. With his approval, she climbed out and walked the rest of the way, leaving Gustav to rage at the forming traffic. Christine half dragged her feet, but once inside the elevator that luxury evaded her.

In movies elevators always stopped.

In movies the young woman always met a charming young man in an elevator.

In movies elevators were always gateways to happiness.

For a second, she thought about pushing the distress button, but ruled it out. He'd asked her to come. She'd agreed. A part of her wanted to be here, there was no denying it now. And she wasn't that big of a coward as to lie to herself.

The doors parted and she stepped out.

He was waiting for her in the kitchen. She watched Monsieur pour two cups of tea. One, Christine knew from experience, would be cold and good to throw away by the end of the hour. He never ate or drank in her presence. She closed the door behind her, with all the care in the world.

"How was your day ?" he called over his shoulder. "Pleasant, I hope." He walked over to her, and thrust a hot cup into her hands.

She warily glanced down at it.

"I've apologized," Monsieur said in a desolate tone, as if reading her mind.

"You did," she agreed, and took a sip. Overly sweet. Just how she liked it.

He stood close, too close for comfort, and she recognized the odd hunger in his eyes. He wouldn't back off, but nor would he violate any more of her personal space. Christine stepped out of his direct circle of influence, and walked away.

His fingers whispered against a strand of her hair. Brushed it away from her forehead. She shivered.

"Don't touch me." The hand fell way as though shot. "Please." That didn't do anything good either.

"You can see him, you know."

She'd barely heard him; the mask didn't help, only prevented his words from coming out loud and clear. "What ?"

"The boy. Your friend." Monsieur didn't even try quelling the animosity dripping from his tongue. "You can see him."

"I can ?" she repeated, in awe.

"Yes. Like I've said, I've been so rude to you. But _please_, only at school."

That 'please', although as emotionless as a rock, made everything better. For the first time in months, Christine genuinely smiled at him, and that made him take a step back. And when she thanked him, he asked to _please _take her hand. Was it their magic word from now on ?

He led her to the window, and pointed down at a woman strolling toward a waiting car.

"That's Carlotta Giudicelli," he told her. "She's an opera singer. Quite the primadonna." He chuckled to himself.

Christine brought her face closer to the window; her nose bumped against it, eliciting a laugh from him.

"Really ? So she's famous, and she lives here. Next to you." The next question had nothing to do with the celebrity. "Just how much do you pay to live here ?"

He never answered.

"But in my opinion," Monsieur continued, "she's more of a toad. I'll show you, someday," he promised.

"This is not what we're supposed to be doing," Christine brought up pensively.

Monsieur's shoulders rose then fell. "Call it alternative therapy."

* * *

She tore a huge piece out of her newly-granted freedom the day after.

True to his word, Raoul had called her. Christine had blamed her attitude of the day before on a migraine. Whether he bought the excuse or not was unimportant, because they were on good terms anew.

For the first time in her life, Christine felt like the cool kid. Walking alongside Raoul tended to do that. And when Charlie gave her an envious look, the time came to check one more thing off her bucket list. Make a popular girl jealous. Well, maybe not jealous, since this wasn't a teen movie, but certainly yearning – to be in her place.

"What class you have next ?" Raoul asked.

Christine checked her schedule. "Math."

"I hate that professor," Raoul said, peering over her shoulder. "Could he talk any slower ?" His imitation of Chandler was absolutely perfect.

"He's not that bad," she defended the poor man after laughing.

"Yeah. Well. Have you ever been to Myrtle Beach ?"

Myrtle Beach... The memory was nothing but a blur, but still hadn't escaped from her mind. Christine remembered herself as a chubby six-year-old running down the beach. Her mother she could not recall, but Gustav had spent years assuring her that she'd been there. She shuddered at the memory of that one ghost who kept hunting her throughout the years. Wasn't she supposed to be the loving daughter ?

"Yeah, but when I was a child," she said. "After that dad mainly took me to Europe. But I only ever stayed in the hotel rooms with nannies while he worked."

Raoul snapped his fingers in victory. "Then you remember me ? Come on, Chris, tell me you do."

"I remember a red scarf," she admitted, smiling at Meg who was waving from a distance without the least bit of subtlety.

And a thin figure rushing after it...right into the waves. Another figure, with the same honeyed hair, but taller than even her father – Phil, of course !

She whirled on her heels to face the thin boy who'd grown to become so handsome. For an instant, his expression mirrored her recognition.

"You're the littler sailor dad keeps joking about !" Christine exclaimed. "You had that striped shirt, and you weren't afraid of water...Oh god." She laughed as he turned away, embarrassed. "That's so funny."

"I shouldn't have brought that up."

"No, you should have kept it to yourself." She giggled. "But why did you ?"

"No reason." Raoul groaned when they passed a sign announcing that the AC system had broke down. "It's just that you've changed so much."

* * *

"Dad ?" she called, unlocking the door.

"In here," Gustav called from the kitchen.

Humming a light tune under her breath, Christine kicked off her shoes, lost her bag, and followed his voice. The day had been wonderfully normal, and tonight she even had the evening off. Off everything. Homework, appointments, studies.

She laid eyes on her father as he struggled to open a particularly stubborn water bottle. On the kitchen counter, sat a pill bottle. It was different from the one that had scared her nearly to death. Smaller, whiter, not as frightening. Still, she felt her grin fly away. Blood pooled into her extremities and away from her face.

"Have you seen a ghost ?" Gustav joked upon seeing her.

_Almost. _"Why are you taking those ?" she asked, pointing at the bottle from afar as though it might bite her.

"Doctors are like hips: they don't lie." He watched her face for a reaction, a huge smile on his lips. "Oh come on, Christine, that joke killed at the office today. Okay, okay. Long story short, I have heart problems."

"What kind of problems, dad ?"

Her eyes were on him instantly, but before she had the presence of mind to utter a sound of distress, a warning even, Gustav had cut her off.

''And don't you dare worry. I'm perfectly well.''

''That's what you said last year. Remember how it ended? You ended up at the hospital with appendicitis," she pointed out.

''Don't worry,'' he said again, throwing a pill into his open mouth.

Christine could only watch.


	6. Chapter 6

Oh my God… Guess what you guys ? **IT WAS MY BIRTHDAY ! THE 12 !** I HAD A PUPPY ! Wanna give me a birthday present ? Just review XD

Hahaha ! I'm just so excited about the twenty-something parties I had…AND I'm a horrible, horrible writer ! I didn't even check twice this chapter, just send it like this to my wonderful beta ^^ I guess I'm like this after many congrats.

I mean, for once I get to have a birthday party…My birthday is the same day as my mom's and best friend's so… you see the deal XD I know, I know, hate me. Filler chapter before the fun stuff starts.

I love you all !

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Earlier, she hadn't been sure whether he was playing with her or just enjoyed her confusion. If he was possessive before, this new attitude was crossing all the lines. Christine had had to bite her lip in an attempt to stay calm, but his questions still infuriated her. To be brief, it went a little bit like this:

''What did you do today ?''

_Went to school_.

''What did you do there?''

_Nothing that concerns you_.

A murderous look. ''Don't you dare talk to me in that tone.

No answer.

_Passed the day with Meg and Ashley._

''Who is Ashley ?''

_A girl_.

''Alright, alright.''

It would have been amusing if she were watching the scene and not participating in it. It was ironic how he knew all the little details about her life while completely ignoring what happened inside the office walls. At least it proved that he wasn't a stalker – a thought Christine forced herself to approve. Nevertheless, he was a creeper. Well, she thought, it was good that he was _just _a creeper. That was better than an abusive stalking creeper.

Her thoughts were interrupted by footsteps.

''Dad?'' she called, catching a glimpse of Gustav disappearing behind the front door. ''Where are you going?''

''Ah, I'm just paying a social visit to Lawrence.'' Lawrence was his lawyer. The chubby man was funny and always smiling. ''What's wrong?'' her father pressed.

''Nothing," she muttered. ''I was just wondering about this legal guardian thing…''

''And what about it?'' He was annoyed, Christine saw, but she still wasn't ready to give up on the subject.

''Why can't it be Mrs. Valerius?'' There, she had said it. The idea hadn't left her alone for weeks now, and was getting on her nerves. Why did it had to be some Erik Humbert guy she'd never even met?

''Because dear." Gustav sighed and rolled his eyes as if explaining something that was obvious to him, but impossible for the rest of humanity to understand. "Mrs. Valerius is an old woman and enjoys her liberty?'' What? That didn't make any sense. Mama loved her. Christine said so aloud. "Well, do you actually expect her to say to your face 'Christine! I like you but leave me the hell alone!' Hm?''

It was impossible to argue with him, and so she just waved him off like an annoying fly. ''I get it. Just go; Lawrence is waiting.''

When the door closed she shuddered. Whenever she was alone _he_ would call. It was as if he had some super-power to guess when no one was around her. Christine stared – she literally _stared_ – at her cell phone, anticipating its vibration and the 'Private Number' that would be displayed on its screen.

What was even scarier than his supposed psychic powers was his ability to manipulate her mood. One moment she would feel depressed and dejected, and the next she would jump around smiling. And each time he would be the cause - the cause of her tears, the cause of her laughter. She could tell that he loved being able pull her out of an 'artificial depression' and then proudly babble about how he was good to her and how she would feel forever miserable if he disappeared. Sometimes Christine believed him.

Oh, and there! Right there! she thought excitedly, as if she was some medium predicting the future. Her phone began to vibrate furiously. Keeping her eyes away from the screen and praying one last time that it was Raoul or Meg, she took the call. But of course it was neither of them. When she heard the soft, melodic voice at the other end, all her hopes were crushed.

''Christine!'' he said all too joyfully, making her suspicious. ''What are you doing today?'' _Well try to guess…_

''I was planning to see Meg,'' What a lie, what a lie... Meg was somewhere. She didn't even know where, just some random place. ''Have a girl's night, you know," she continued. But God! He was worse than her father. If Gustav was getting suspicious whenever she mentioned a boy (save Raoul who he seemed to like), Monsieur became just…violent. Surely he couldn't be that conscious when it came to her well-being?

''Could you possibly cancel it?'' Why was he even asking? If she said no, he would begin to throw threats around, forcing her to come anyway.

''I don't know…'' Christine whined, trying to make him give up. ''I already promised her…''

''I'm sure your friend will not be too upset," he pressed.

"Look!" she spat after a moment. ''I'm seeing you seven times a week, and I spend my evenings with you when I could see my friends. Isn't that enough?''

There was a long silence, and Christine wandered what possessed her to even begin the argument. She never won…

''Besides dad is gone so-'' she began but was cut almost immediately.

''I'll send a taxi to pick you up." His tone was cold and final and Christine knew better than to fight him at the moment. ''Get ready.''

* * *

Christine prepared herself for everything but this. As the door closed behind her, making the so-desired escape impossible, Monsieur affirmed that they were going to have dinner with all the excitement of an old woman. She almost said that it was alright, that she wasn't hungry. Eating his food was out of the question. By now, though, she knew better. Still, what was even more bizarre was that when he presented her with a plate of some exotic food, he had taken nothing for himself but a glass of wine that he didn't so much as touch.

Feeling bold enough she finally asked, ''Why? Why all of this?'' She made a vague gesture towards the food.

''I heard it's better to have a talk when one's stomach is full," he reasoned.

''What do you want to talk about?'' Christine played with what was on her plate, making it roll around. She felt childish but didn't stop.

''You love him, don't you?'' That was unexpected. Even though there was nothing in her mouth, she choked. She was surprised that he didn't rise to help her breathe or whatever like he used to.

''Who?''

''You know who.''

''No I don't.''

''And what about your father?''

''You mean dad? I love him.''

''So you do love him?''

''Who?''

''The boy.''

''What? I just said yes I did!''

They just stared at each other and Christine grew more and more uncomfortable. There was nothing reassuring in the way he was looking at her. She was certain that if he actually had the guts to kill her he would have done so. Or maybe the obvious anger in his gaze wasn't for her.

''I'm confused," she finally confessed. ''What just happened?''

''Eat!" Monsieur barked harshly. Afraid of this new tantrum, she did. The thought that he could actually be physically dangerous came to her and so Christine stayed silent for the rest of the meal.

Not once did he raise that mask of his to put his lips on display and drink his wine. Perhaps there was something wrong with his face. Was he injured or something? It was quite possible and Christine understood why he wouldn't want to show whatever was wrong with his face. Still, curiosity was eating her alive. He turned to look at the while, giving her an opportunity. And so, her hands aching, she silently rose from her chair and sat close to him. Monsieur didn't seem to mind and his mask moved a little. She took it as a sign that he was smiling.

''Don't even think about it, " he said suddenly.

Her jaw dropped. ''Wha-what ?'' Christine stuttered.

''You won't touch the mask, " Monsieur hissed. He grabbed her wrists, ignoring her weak pleas of pain. ''One isn't supposed to touch what isn't his? Hm? Do you agree with that statement ?''

''Yes !'' She squeaked, desperate for him to let go because it hurt so much. Was he even aware how painfully his bony fingers dug into her flesh?

''Oh, and one more thing my dear,'' he added in a honeyed voice, so close that his false lips touched her ear. ''You are not allowed to love him. I don't believe you do – for you are young and confused. But let's make it clear, shall we?"

This was just getting ridiculous. Her wrists were hurting, tears were gathering in her eyes, and all she could think about was the dull pain. Well, at least now she would have something to show her father so he would finally believe that Monsieur was some sort of freak. Bruises. Keeping this in mind, she bit her lip and endured his touch. If it was the cost of proof, she would take it gladly.

''Am I understood Christine?'' he pressed.

''Yes!''

After what seemed an eternity, he released her and pressed a 'kiss' (it wasn't a real one coming from false lips) to her temple.

''It's always better when we understand each other,'' he whispered. ''I don't want there to be misunderstandings.''

About what? She didn't dare to ask.

* * *

He was playing with her mind and every time he did so she felt powerless. As if she weren't in control of her own life anymore. What was that crazy talk about? She still didn't understand who she was supposed not to love. Ugh, it was confusing.

''Christine?''

Her father was back. Forgetting about everything, she rushed to the front door. Her wrists now displayed some ugly bruises which she was desperate to show to Gustav. Now he would have no other choice but to believe her and cancel those damn sessions once and for all. However, her grin of anticipation soon vanished once she caught a glimpse of her father. He was pale, tired-looking and there were big black circles under his eyes.

''Dad!'' She exclaimed, hurrying to his side. ''What's wrong? You don't look good. Do you want a glass of water? An Advil? Some fruit? A-''

''I'm perfectly fine, honey.'' He cut her off and then shoved her away. Christine frowned, seeing behind his façade and playful, tired smile.

''Well yeah, of course. Isn't it obvious?'' she snarled, going to get him some water anyway. In movies they always did that whenever someone wasn't feeling well. Why? A mystery, but apparently it helped. So she followed the example. ''Sit down, you must sit down," Christine coaxed.

Eventually Gustav gave in and collapsed on the sofa, bringing a shaking hand to his eyes. ''Christine, darling?'' he murmured.

She was at his side in a moment. ''What? What do you want? Should I call Mrs. Giry? She's a nurse you know…''

''No, no. Just bring me my pills, will you ?'' At this she had to bite her lip to restrain herself from yelling. They weren't doing him any good and Christine was more than tempted to throw them out the window. No, better. Bury them somewhere so he would never find them.

''I don't know dad…'' She whined. ''Maybe you should take a break. You've only gotten worse since the doc' gave you those. Come on, take a break. Or just go see another specialist."

But as always he won the argument. Mumbling, Christine rose to fetch his coat where the damn bottle of pills remained. They were no different from the vitamins she used to take while young: little, white, simple. However _they_ seemed to be the cause of Gustav's illness. It was strange to think, but Christine just couldn't find another explanation. And so she considered 'losing' them to see how her dad would go on without them. It would take him a certain time to get another prescription and meanwhile he would discover that he didn't need them -

''Christine!'' she heard from the living room.

''Coming," she grumbled, shoving the pills into her pocket. There weren't many left, she kept reassuring herself. Once they were all gone she would convince her father to stop taking them. For now, he was just too stubborn to listen.

''You know,'' she began hesitantly, "there are others way to cure heart problems. Um, I heard that this Chinese medicine is miraculous…''

''Christine,'' he said rather harshly, annoyed, ''It's alright. I trust my doctor. He's a professional. Now would you please stop clenching the bottle in your hand and give it to me?''

The girl had no other choice but to obey.

* * *

She was euphoric. There was nothing that Monsieur could do about what Gustav had just announced. Oh, it wasn't as great as an annulment of their sessions, but close to it. The day before he stumbled in the kitchen with a big smile on his tired face and proudly told her that he had arranged her summer vacation. Christine was alerted at first. What if that plan of his involved sending her to an asylum or keeping her under Monsieur's care? Oh, but it was nothing of the sort.

Meg and Raoul had came by last evening while she was gone to ask if she could come with them to some camping spot during summer. And he agreed! He even paid for everything - well, he almost did. Raoul's brother refused to accept his money and provided him with everything, including the funds, because he didn't want to look 'poor'. It wasn't necessary; everyone knew that the de Chagny's were far from that title.

But what was even better was that Gustav left town today and so if Monsieur decided to control him (by now Christine was almost certain he possessed some hypnotic power even though it sounded stupid), he wouldn't be able to.

''What are you happy about?'' Monsieur asked, gently stroking the back of her hand. Christine was tempted beyond measure to pull away and run the hell out of there screaming.

''I'm going on vacation soon,'' she confessed, a big bright smile illuminating her features. ''I just can't wait.''

When Monsieur had mood swings, no one else in the room was allowed to feel something. He had this ability to fill space with whatever he was feeling. Right now it seemed to be confusion, followed by anger and finally disbelief. It was as if something was slipping out of his control.

''And where are you going, my Christine ?'' he asked, careful not to scare her with the coldness of his tone. It only made her smile wider. Oh, how she enjoyed seeing him so powerless. _Really, you can't control everything after all_, she thought.

''We haven't yet decided,'' she lied just in case, ''but probably to the beach. Meg loves the beach and Raoul does too. But we won't be staying in a hotel. I mean, what's the fun? We're bringing those big tents…''

''Wait,'' he articulated slowly, dangerously. ''The _boy_ is coming? He is coming _with_ you?''

''Yep.'' Christine grinned devilishly.

She loved it. For once she wasn't the one torturing. There was clearly nothing he could do and she enjoyed the feeling of power and was determined to savour it to its end. After a long moment, his touch became more intimate and he spoke. Slowly, he articulated each of his words as if she were a toddler.

''Christine, Christine,'' he said, his voice hypnotic as he tried to coax her. ''I don't think it's a good idea. You could do so much better with your summer. Just think of it. You are soon turning seventeen. You can go work anywhere you want.''

Well that was unexpected. She had prepared herself for shouting and screaming and violent threats. But not this. _This_ was actually some kind of liberty. Still, the answer was no. She wanted the beach with Meg and Raoul. Especially Raoul. And despite all those pleasant things he was now promising her, she wasn't going to give it up. Not for him.

''Oh yeah?'' Christine mused, sarcastic. ''At Tim Horton's? No thank you.'' This was getting fun.

''No, of course not!'' Monsieur exclaimed all too cheerfully. ''I need a personal assistant. Perhaps you could fill the position.''

_Are you kidding me? NO, NO, NO, NO._

''No.'' She spoke her thoughts aloud. ''I'd rather not. Don't take it personally. I just don't feel like working. I didn't have a real vacation for a while so…''

His voice became cold and she knew what was coming. ''Well then, my Christine..." She knew what was coming and would have grinned, but knew it would give her away, ''I'm afraid I will have to call your father and talk with him about it.

''But you can't!" she almost yelled, eager to see his expression. ''Because he's out of town and will not be back for a while.''

She could see his mask move up and down a little. Was it his mouth? Opening and closing, ignorant of what to say? Quite possibly. He was aghast for the first time, she could tell it. Oh what joy she felt at that moment - joy and utter control. It was intoxicating. Christine prepared herself for pleas, but to her amazement the only thing he said was:

''Who is looking after you?'' _Don't even try it_, she longed to yell. _I know what you're thinking_.

''I'm staying with Meg and her mother,'' she proudly declared. ''Mrs. Valerius also wants me to stay at her place sometimes. She's a great woman.'' Christine waited for him to say something, but he remained silent, thinking. ''Oh, and Monsieur?''

''Yes my dear?'' he responded softly, hope filling his eyes. Christine felt perverse satisfaction at the thought that she was going to destroy it in mere seconds.

She made her eyes big and wide, completely innocent. She only wished that it would work. ''Dad said,'' she lied smoothly, ''that our sessions will have to be interrupted for the summer. I'll be busy, you understand.''

Tick, tok, tick, tok. There was no clock but she could hear one in her mind. It was deciding her fate. Pure amazement crossed his masked feature, entwined with obvious anger. At this point, Christine finally understood that she had gone too far. But it was too late. It took him less than a second to grab her sore wrists and pull her yielding body to his. With his other hand he grabbed her chin and forced it upward.

''I don't know what your father said to you,'' he hissed slowly, ''but you will not get rid of me so easily.

''I never said I wanted to get rid of you !'' Anything so that he would only let go of her. She hated being overpowered. She hated when he touched her…This cold, bony body pressed to hers in such an intimate way… It was too much to handle.

''I know.'' His grip softened, becoming almost gentle. Carefully, his thumb came to brush across her lower lip. Christine drew in a hysterical breath, waiting for a slap or something like that. It never came. ''You _don't want to_ get away from me. You _want_ to stay.''

Perhaps it was her and her disturbed mind - it could only be labeled disturbed after everything she experience that year – but she thought that he whispered, ever so softly 'My Christine' one last time before easing her in the chair.

''Will you ever tell me your name?'' she asked, closing her eyes. There was a certain amount of ignorance she could bear, but this was too much.

''Why of course," Monsieur answered. As if it were such a natural thing. ''You will _have_ to know it. But for now, it's not important.''


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 ? Indeed ! Thank you all who wished me a happy birthday, it made my day :D. And 11 reviews ? Wooow. I'll never get tired of saying how much I love. Can you beat the record now ? Come on ? Even if I say that the next chapter is almost ready XD ?

And you all have to say thank you to my wonderful beta – I am Devonna Ransom – who's internet is rebellious but despite it she found the time to edit this chapter. *Applause*

**Eriks-punjab-girl **: I read Futtenwacken and I was like...euuh, what's that XD ? Then I figured out it was a dance performed by the mad hatter in the movie. I WATCHED THE WHOLE MOVIE WAITING FOR THE FUTTENWACKEN XDD (But it was a good movie ^^'', not that I'm complaining!)

Enough useless rambling – not that somebody reads the author note XD – I present you the chapter 7.

* * *

**Chapter 7**

''I want this to be clear Christine. You are not to take the ring off under any circumstances.''

It wasn't ugly…It was just strange, Christine decided eying one last time the damned piece of jewellery on her finger. The ring was large, reminding her of those plastic ones often on sale in beauty stores. It was so large in fact that it forced her fingers apart, making her appear awkward and tasteless. Because who in their right mind would choose to buy something this huge? It was a little bit like the rings those girls on TV had. Theirs screamed 'Hurray, I'm getting married!' What was hers supposed to say? 'Hurray I have mental problems?' Gold, was it gold? If so why did he offered her such a valuable thing? She tried not to think about the round, black thing that vaguely looked like a pearl.

''Yes, of course," she whispered.

''Do you like it?'' His tone was that of a whining child who'd just drawn a picture of his family and now longed to present it to his mother. As Monsieur knelt down beside her to ensure that their eyes were on the same level, Christine had to bite her lip in an attempt to not look away. It was disturbing how much he reminded her of a dog sometimes.

Always seeking more and more attention, affection...

''It's big.'' She laughed nervously. The joke apparently didn't pass the test. She felt his fingers clench painfully around her left wrist - the wrist of the hand onto which her finger had been slipped. _It burned_. ''But what girl doesn't like shiny stuff?'' His grip on her relaxed, and she drew in a peaceful breathe.

''Will you at least miss me?'' That was unexpected. Where had his awfully calm and violent behaviour gone? The Monsieur she knew would have ordered her to miss him.

But perhaps it was just the calm before the storm. This thought she chose to ignore.

''Um,'' was her intelligent answer. To be honest, words were simply not coming. It was as if she has swallowed her tongue. ''I…I will be gone only for a week.''

She didn't want to lie - mostly because Monsieur was a human lie detector. And secondly, it never ended well. The bruises around her wrists were proof of it. But he was still staring, waiting, anticipating words that would fall from her lips. _From your soft pink lips_, as he'd once said. Just the memory of it sent shivers down her spine. If she lied and he caught her, there would be consequences. Christine knew that well enough. And she didn't doubt his will power. If he wished for her to stay, he would force her to do so. That was the one thing that she wanted to avoid.

''It will only be a week.'' She spoke softly, but her voice suddenly became very high - close to a squeak - and she feared it would betray her. ''It's not long.''

''Yes, but will you miss me?'' He pressed on and now his fingers ran up and down her bare arms. Christine hated herself for not opting for complete coverage this morning, but it was so hot outside. He seemed to enjoy it. After she figured out how much he loved initiating contact, her skin was on display. And not only to satiate the hunger of his eyes.

''Christine, I want you to miss me.'' Go, go, the merry-go-round, the vicious circle. They were back at the where they'd started. Monsieur was once again demanding, almost forcing her to feel things she didn't want to. And of course Christine, his favoured puppet, obeyed, afraid of her master's temper.

And so she spoke, this time fright not at all hidden in her voice. ''I will miss you.'' There, she had said it. Strangely, she didn't feel relieved.

''I want you to promise.''

''Promise what?''

''That you will wear the ring and miss me.''

She frantically nodded. The request didn't make any sense, but if it was what made him happy then so be it.

''Good.'' He rose from his knees. She had just promised the impossible; she couldn't - wouldn't - miss him. To tell the truth, Christine longed to leave and never come back. Even now she felt intimidated by his tall (and simply bony) figure. The way he passed his hand through his ebony hair was entrancing - frightfully so. In fact, everything he did with his hands was strangely passionate. She liked watching him from afar. He was like some sort of great, wild cat. Beautiful to watch, but you were to never come close.

''Tell me about him," Monsieur suddenly commanded, his voice becoming harsh and cold. Slowly, she brought her knees up to her chest in a vain attempt to calm herself. She didn't even notice that she started shivering. He did of course. ''Are you cold?''

To avoid further unnecessary questions, Christine slowly nodded. He was gone instantly, and she foolishly almost hoped that he would get lost and - But there he was, carrying a blanket. It looked expensive. Everything he owned looked expensive. However when she silently reached for it he drew back a few steps and waited for her arms to come back to her sides. Christine obeyed the unspoken command and he approached her once more. Gently, caringly, lovingly – frightfully so – he wrapped the blanket around her, as one might with a baby. She pulled it close to her body and suddenly realized, with a shock, that his hands hadn't leaved her shoulder. Her eyes met his but there was no answer in them to his intimate behaviour.

_This isn't how a doctor is supposed to act!_ her consciousness screamed. For once, Christine completely agreed and didn't push the thought away.

Slowly, his hands began to draw lazy patterns up to her neck, which was also bare to the world. They lingered there a moment too long - just enough for her to grow uncomfortable, and silently pushed the blanket down. Gasping, Christine caught it and covered herself once more. He repeated the gesture. She repeated hers. The game went on for a little while until she understood that he wasn't going to give up. Trembling, she allowed him to uncover her shoulders. He'd seen her in her tank top mere minutes ago. It wasn't a travesty. But it sure felt like one.

Gently, his hands met her neck and began quivering path up and down. Against her will, her body began to relax as his ministrations continued. Somewhere he applied more pressure. In another place, his fingers ran over her neck with only the whisper of a caress. It was as if her body was melting and, not knowing any better, she closed her eyes. After a moment, she realized that she had moved closer to him and was now almost resting on his chest. Christine gasped and, not caring about a possible tantrum, grasped his hands in hers and threw them away. She could tell by the way his eyes widened behind the mask that the contact surprised him.

He sat there, staring at his hands for a long while. As if he couldn't believe something. Sometimes his eyes moved to her finger, the same fingers that had touched him. Then they would returned to his pale flesh. All of this, this whole situation, was far beyond casual contact. It was creeping her out. It was _intimate_ - a mockery of a lover's touch.

And then he spoke softly, so very softly. There was no angst in his tone. ''You were tense.'' She only blinked, now completely wrapped in the blanket. It was her safe place now. ''You needed to relax.''

''Thank - thank you," she stuttered. For what was she thanking him? For not touching you anymore, her mind whispered annoyingly. Only it seemed that he took her 'thank you' as a sign that she loved it. The mask moved up; his lips were curling.

''Tell me about him.''

Reality crushed upon her. _See, witness, hear!_His mood change was a horrifying experience. It was both amusing and completely terrifying to hear his voice going from pure silk – when the subject was regarding her – to thunder, when the talk was any man that wasn't her father.

She played the deaf card and turned her head away. The curtains were closed. There was no sunlight, only a ridiculous amount of lamps as its substitute. Her weak ploy didn't work of course. She didn't expect it to.

''I said tell me about him.'' And to her terror Monsieur rose and walked away from her. Was he going to fetch some pills? The thought paralyzed her mind but not her body. Still, even her subconscious was fighting against him. Unknowingly, she murmured:

''Who?''

Her eyes went impossibly wide from fear, but added some innocence to her visage.

''Don't pretend that you didn't understand, Christine," warned. ''I want to know everything: the boy's name, age, occupation. Everything. Yes, yes, you heard me my Christine, everything.''

And like a robot – or perhaps a pet who was too frightened of his master raising his hand – she articulated. It wasn't without hatred for herself.

''Hi-his name is Raoul de Chagny,'' came the weak start. "...He's French but doesn't speak French…He - his family lived in America for what seems forever. He said it himself…ha, ha. He sometimes works at his brother's company. Nothing serious, ju-just paper work. And he - he goes to the same school as Meg and I…He-he is a year older than I am.''

Silence. Dead silence met her. It was far worse than shouts, cries and rages. Christine almost wished that he had seized her by the wrists again. The pain was better than this awful silence.

It was like the dog that didn't bark or the predator no one hears. You do not fear what you don't see. You don't fear what you don't hear. And you certainly do not run.

When you feel the teeth sink in your neck, it's too late...

''That's all I know!'' She finally cried out, unable to bear the silence much longer.

''Alright.'' Had he spoken at all? If he had, his voice had been so gentle… It was like a breeze, caressing her. ''I believe you.'' He was reassuring her. But then why in the world she was feeling more frightened than ever?

''I promise-''

''I know," Monsieur cut her off sharply. ''You promise that you will miss me. I've got it Christine. I've got it.'' He was mocking her.

''No!'' Tears stung her eyes, bitter tears she wished to wipe away but that her pride refused to let her. If she raised her hand, if she ran her sleeve over her eyes, he would understand that she was indeed on the edge of hysteria.

''No?'' He barked. ''What did you just say?"

''I said no. I promise…Well yes, I promise that I will miss you but I promise…I promise." It was no use. After only a moment, she was once again a sobbing mess on his couch. "I promise that it's all I know! I promise, I really do, I-''

''I've got it, I've got it Christine.'' His voice was honey again. But…but could honey be poisonous? ''Lie to me." His voice staying in the area of soft, coaxing tones. "Just _try _to lie to me. But you know better than that, don't you?''

She frantically nodded. Doing so she allowed his approach and immediately regretted the gesture. Monsieur sat down timidly. Close to her, close to her, way too close to her...

Multiple times he brought his hands together, then distanced them, unable to decide something she did not understand. Then there was a sharp intake of breath, and he clapped his hands. Everything went pitch black.

Christine never felt more in danger than now. And though she knew – she _knew _it dammit – that he would never hurt her or permit himself more than to touch her shoulders or neck, she was still totally and utterly terrified. His breath was coming out in pants, and out of instinct, she silently crawled away from him on the couch. Before she'd gotten far, in he trapped her hands with his, entwining their fingers. His hands were trembling, terribly so. Was it his nerves or something else?

''Let me touch your face,'' he whispered. Christine bit her lip and closed her eyes. It was the foolish reaction of a child, for the lights were already off. His hands were soft, but hesitant on her cheeks. He traced her face in an almost religious gesture as his hot breath tickled her neck. How close was he really? Christine wasn't sure she wanted to discover the answer.

She felt his thumb come to rest close to her lips and started trembling. Slowly, hesitantly, withdrawing three or four times, he traced them adoringly. Each time he added a little more pressure. _Your soft pink lips_, Christine remembered again. They weren't soft; they were dry. They weren't pink; they were red because of the many times she'd bitten them. Monsieur didn't seem to mind, however. There was pure adoration in the way he was caressing her flesh.

''Just let me _pretend_," he breathed. There was thud as something hit the floor. She knew that sound, Christine realized with a thrill. It was the same that accompanied the fall of his mask. She remembered that once before she'd arrived earlier than usual. He hadn't been ready and when she entered the apartment, his back was to her. Curious, Christine had decided to be silent and approach him to see his face. But he'd heard her and panicked. How he'd yelled! The mask had fallen to the floor and while she numbly stared at his back, he'd bent down to pick it up.

The mask was off. _The mask was off_. It was all she could think about. Adrenaline rushed through her veins. Without giving it a second thought, she tried gingerly to feel for him with her hands, unable to see anything. The air was becoming warmer, and she could only guess how close her hands were to him. If he knew what she was about to do, he didn't seem to mind. His breathing was fast, shallow, ragged or- or was it her ?

She was so close, so close to finally uncovering the mystery. To see the man behind the mask. Christine thought about clapping her hands. After all, wasn't it the manoeuvre he'd used to turn the lights off? And suddenly, just like that, she touched him. The contact almost burned her. But it wasn't on his face. Instead, her fingers slowly came to rest on the skin of his neck. It was thrilling and terrifying and she could feel a small vibration there. He was humming. He didn't stop her, but there was an unspoken warning. At that moment Christine knew for sure that if she attempted anything, broken wrists would only be the start.

She didn't pull away and he leaned closer into her touch, drinking in her proximity like a dying man. A soft moan escaped his lips and it practically undid Christine. It was as much as she could do to not just run away. Her body grew even warmer from shame and fright as his own moved closer.

''Yes,'' he breathed and when he did so she felt his breath on her neck. ''Now I believe you.'' And when his lips – bare lips! – met the place between her neck and shoulders, she thought she would faint.

* * *

''Christine, why are you looking at you cell phone that way?'' Raoul called.

_I am just afraid it will ring_. ''I'm…I'm afraid I won't have enough power for the week.'' And it was the truth.

He would call. Of course he would call. And if she didn't answer he'd wait for her when she returned. She couldn't help being afraid. They were leaving today, this evening to be specific. While Meg was arguing with her mother, she and Raoul escaped. Then he invited – dragged – her to a nearby café.

_Of course_ she accepted.

''Christine?''

''Hum?'' She muttered. ''I'm sorry I wasn't listening.''

''So I gathered.'' He laughed and Christine unashamedly stared at his perfect white teeth. ''Do you want some ice cream?''

Before she had the time to answer, he was offering her a spoon of his dessert. Christine laughed freely and opened her mouth, trying to keep a calm façade while butterflies were tickling the insides of her stomach. He actually did it; the spoon entered her mouth and as a reflex she bit on it. The sudden gesture made Raoul gasp and laugh instantly.

''Imagine if it was my finger, " he suggested as she slowly, but surely turned tomato red.

''Yeah but it wasn't…'' She muttered her face a bright pink. ''Be grateful for that," Christine mused.

''We're having a good time together, aren't we?''

''Yes,'' she whispered, closing her eyes and drinking in the first moment of peace she'd had for a year now. ''Yes, a very good time. _Together_.''

He said something else, something about the weather, but she didn't hear him. Her eyes were focused on the ring, strange thing that it was. When light fell onto it, it became ridiculously hard to ignore. And God only knew she wished to avoid questions. Raoul's hand abruptly came to touch hers and she gasped, withdrawing in an instant. So he was that bold now?

''That's a strange stone,'' he remarked, pointing at her hidden hand under the table, ''Looks like a black pearl. Very shiny, perfectly round. I once saw Philippe ordering a necklace with on of those.''

''What do you know about it?'' Christine whispered, her hand resting on the table again so that Raoul could the ring better.

His blue eyes scanned the pearl, widening. His tongue sometimes came out to lick his dry lips. Christine felt horribly perverted for staring each time he repeated the gesture but couldn't turn her eyes away.

''I know it's expensive,'' Raoul finally stated with the look of an expert. ''And I'm not talking about the pearl only. The ring itself - how much carats is that ?''

''I don't know," she muttered. _I don't want to know_. ''Why are you asking?''

He shrugged and sipped on his Coke before answering. (It was mixed with ice cream and she recalled giggling when he'd ordered it.)

His eyes bore all the seriousness of the world.

''No, nothing, it's just that it's an expensive thing.'' This was definitely not the thing she wished to hear.

Perhaps she could take it off once they were out of town. Monsieur wouldn't know it. The ring would be back on her finger the next time she would go to see him. It wasn't as if he had cameras everywhere – especially at Myrtle Beach. She hadn't even told him that that was where they were heading. Yes it could work, it had to. And yet, Christine was still undecided.

''Hey!''

Raoul's cry made her choke. He quickly tapped her back to help her airflow and demanded to see her hand again. Arching an eyebrow, she did what asked. A malicious smile spread on his lips and she wondered just what was so amusing to him.

''Fourth finger, left hand,'' Raoul laughed, sitting back in his chair. ''Ha, ha. That's funny let me tell you.''

Christine frowned. ''What?'' she demanded rather harshly. ''Why are you laughing? What's so hilarious about it?''

''Christine, if you wear the ring on the left hand, fourth finger it means that you're married or maybe engaged.''

Her blood ran cold. No, it was just an error. Nobody never looked on the hand on which they slipped a ring – unless it was a marriage proposal. Even Meg wore one or two on her left hand. And Monsieur didn't seem to care either…

She remembered him grasping her arm. She remembered the way he'd slowly run his fingers down until they reached her own, finding the perfect new home for his ring.

_I love you_. He had said it. No! No he didn't…Well yes he did, but… It was a misunderstanding. He was confused, he was overprotective. Just like her father.

_But your father never touches you like this_, Meg once said.

Because of course Meg knew everything or almost. She refused to acknowledge it back then and pushed it from her mind now. No, she wouldn't give in to hysteria. If she did…well, she would surely end up running to Monsieur. Because he would know what happened. He always knew.

Her phone began to vibrate, but it was only Meg announcing that she'd somehow managed to slip pass her mother and gotten out. She was now heading to the café where they were chatting. She offered to go see a movie. The ability to speak was lost to Christine and so she only shoved her cell phone into Raoul's hands. He approved the idea with a grin. He had a beautiful smile, and the way he tossed his hair to the side when it was bothering him… Shaking her head she turned it away. Now wasn't the time to fantasize about one of the best-looking guys in school.

''Who's Meu-ssieu?'' He suddenly asked. She didn't notice he was browsing through her contact list.

''Monsieur,'' she corrected, averting her gaze, ''It's my…my doctor. Remember I once talked about him?''

''Oh yeah, the freak who thinks you're always sick.'' His voice dropped down an octave. ''He's one annoying guy, isn't he? And why do you have his number? I mean, what the hell has he got to do with your everyday life? You should really -''

''Don't call him that!'' she whispered, pulling at his sleeve so that he would sit down. ''Don't ever call him that.''

''Why? What are you afraid of?'' Christine steadied his hand and grasped her cell phone before he did something stupid… Like call Monsieur.

''Nothing…'' She mumbled, turning to the window, ''Geez, Meg is already here. Meg, Meg! Right here!''

Oh Meg, hurry, she prayed silently, seeing a question forming on Raoul's lips. But he swallowed it once Meg was close enough to hear them. Leaning close, he spoke quietly in her ear.

''You know that you can trust me." His breath tickled deliciously her skin, ''If there is something -''

Christine cut him off sharply.

''Well you see Raoul, that's the thing. There's nothing. But thank you.''

* * *

Who else could it be? For a moment Christine seriously considered letting the phone ring. She could forget it, just leave and go to another room. It wasn't about consequences now. It wasn't about fear. She was just so_ tired _of being control. She wished to be let alone, just for once… It would be such a welcome change. Everything was silent then. The anonymous caller gave up. A small, sad smile formed on her lips only when the phone began to vibrate once more. And so she pressed the little green button, not wishing to infuriate him further.

''Are you already tired, Christine?'' came his sarcastic question. He was angry. Just great. ''Why so silent?''

''I'm sorry,'' she whispered, closing her eyes. ''I really am tired. I was heading to bed and so I didn't hear when you called…''

Silence. ''I apologize.'' He sounded sincere. She decided to give him a chance and sat down, sighing and rubbing her temples. Meg was taking a shower so she couldn't hear her. ''I was just worried. How are you doing, dear? I'm not so sure that this trip is a good idea. You get tired so quickly…''

''I'm alright Monsieur,'' Christine lied smoothly, shamelessly. ''I can't really talk right now…''

''You are staying at your friend's house?'' He inquired.

''Just like I told you. She's in the shower and will come out anytime.''

''Christine.'' God, why couldn't he just hang up? It was seriously getting on her nerves. She grit her teeth in frustration. ''Are you still wearing the ring?''

Her heart stopped. Did he see everything? Her breath was coming out in gasps as she rushed towards the backpack where she had uncaringly threw the ring an hour ago. It was burning her as only a promise can.

A promise she'd made but knew nothing about nonetheless. He probably guessed what she was doing because he remained silent. Trembling like a dead leaf, Christine slipped the ring on a random finger on her right hand.

''Ye-yes, of course!'' She exclaimed way too cheerfully. It was more than enough to make one suspicious. ''I promised you that I would and -''

''I want it to remain on. No matter what, Christine. Always, always on. I'm sure that you want to be safe from me.''

The dial tone wished her good night.


	8. Chapter 8

I love when you guys review, you know it, right ? Without your support this chapter would have taken much more time to write. And I know that right now I'm shamelessly begging for you to tell your opinion, but I'm kind of nervous about this one.

So tell me, do you like it ?

Do you hate it ?

C'mooon, what do you think about it ?

Oh and, as you may know I have some problems with my father…I live in New York, he lived in France. So he came to visit me and rented a super-suit at a hotel and I was like 'Dad, I have enough place for you' and her answered that he didn't want to ruin my little student budget. It REALLY infuriated me. I already work as an apprentice and I pay my own bills, not like all my friends out there. He practically called me poor…I know you probably think me stupid but my father and I are competing since forever. And to make things worse he brought his friend – my law teacher – to the restaurant for a 'family dinner'. Oh of course, we simply LOVE each other. So much he does everything to kill me !

Do I need to say how much I'm pissed off right now ?

But I still love you ^^ Do you love me ? Oh and. Out of boredom and depression **I started a new phic called 'There was no kiss'**. Go check it out.

Review, review, review because I'm nervous.

* * *

**Chapter 8**

''...and you won't believe what she did!'' Meg screamed, her pretty face red with frustration.

Christine nudged Raoul in the ribs. The bastard couldn't be silent for even a moment. He was laughing hysterically while Meg needed to be comforted. Meg and her mother had a very…special relationship. For one who watched from the outside, it was funny, amusing - simply hilarious. Truth be told, Christine understood Raoul. It was almost impossible to remain calm.

''What did she do Meg?'' She asked compassionately.

''Okay, so I was talking on the phone with you – remember? And then I mentioned that guy who hit my ass. What was the imbecile's name…?''

''Charles,'' Christine provided.

''Yeah!'' her friend cheered. ''So I said that he hit my ass and SHE heard me…And then she was like 'Meghan Giry! How dare you, you are so young…yada, yada, yada….I am taking you to a gynaecologist!''

Raoul burst into uncontrollable laughter, followed closely by Christine. She tried – God as her witness she did – so hard to keep her lips pressed again, but it just didn't work. Soon, she was almost rolling on the floor with Raoul. It was mean, so very mean…Meg was pouring out her heart to them, and instead of comforting her they were dying, lying on their stomach.

''You are two idiots!'' Meg yelled, attempting to empty her bottle of water on them. ''HE slapped my ass! And _I _am the guilty one! What the hell? I mean seriously, is she stupid or what?''

''No-No…Meggy,'' Raoul choked. ''It's just that…Oh my God…That's the funniest thing I've heard in a long time… I want to meet your mother!''

''Yeah - yeah!'' Christine stuttered, tears gathering in her eyes. "Tell Mrs. Giry that I'm her biggest fan. You gotta love her!''

Meg kicked both of them gently. ''You are the worst friends a girl can have!'' She pouted, but a ghost of a smile grazed her lips.

''May you burn in Hell as well," Raoul returned, still laughing.

''Um, Christine. I don't want to be the one to end your little party..." Meg glanced at her friend rolling around. ''But your cell phone is ringing. Maybe you should take the call.''

Instantly she stiffened. Her father had called merely minutes ago, so it couldn't be him. Or could it? Perhaps he forgot to tell her something important…Like what ? 'Don't forget to brush your teeth' didn't seem probable.

_Monsieur?_

It was her turn not to believe the alternative. It truly was a horrible one. What if he had convinced her father not to let her stay? But her thoughts were interrupted when she heard Raoul mumbling a confused 'hello'. In pure horror, she watched him raise his eyebrow and make a disgusted face. He handed her the phone.

''Man," he told Meg. "This guy almost yelled at me, asking who was answering _Christine's_ phone.'' Christine had run away so they couldn't hear the conversation.

They were leaving in an hour. Why was he even bothering to call?

''Hello?'' She murmured, hesitating. She almost closed her eyes in hopes of escaping the monster with the beautiful voice. It crossed her mind that predators had to have something to attract their victims.

Childish fantasies.

''_Who was that?_'' Monsieur questioned. His voice was awfully calm, and it was always during these instances that she seriously feared for her life. It was worse than one of his rages.

''A friend,'' she stuttered. _Please don't make me stay_. The answer didn't seem to please him - he remained silent.

''Raoul!'' She finally shouted, causing the young man to turn around and open his mouth. She made a bitter, irritated gesture in the air, and he returned his attention to Meg. ''I told you about him. God, I told you that I was leaving with him and Meg today!''

There was a long, suffocating silence. Her heartbeat increased and her whole body felt unbearably warm, almost burning. Not from fever but fear. Why, oh why, wasn't he talking? Almost panting, Christine shot a quick look at the screen, confirming that he hadn't ended the call.

''Why is he answering your phone?'' Monsieur's voice became gentle – much too gentle. Honey and milk. He was coaxing her, _again_.

The truth seemed the best way to go, even though it was strange. She blurted it out, blushing. ''I…I was rolling on the ground.''

''And why were you rolling on the ground?'' Sarcasm dripped from his tongue and onto her fresh wound. Christine winced.

''I was laughing.''

When his voice came it was thick and low, as if he were trying to find something to say and found it rather difficult. ''Christine- " He cut himself off with a sigh. ''Christine." It was another try and another failed attempt. ''I didn't want to, but perhaps… Maybe it is for the best." The sound was suddenly muffled and she could only guess that he was struggling for composure. ''I would like to see you. Now. It will be quick. '' His commanding tone was back.

''But, but I can't!'' She cried out. "We're leaving in an hour. We're just waiting for Meg's mom to calm down and give us the signal. I can't!''

''I'm waiting for you.'' He hung up.

As Meg would say, total face palm. Sighing, she called out for Raoul. ''I need you to take me somewhere.'' In the car, a compliant Raoul suddenly refused to take her anywhere once he learned of her destination.

''Please Raoul!'' She implored, ready to yell. '_'Please, please_, please! I need to see him!''

But he remained stubborn. He only ran his fingers up and down the wheel, not turning it, not doing anything.

''No!'' He growled back. ''You don't understand Christine! This freak is going to hypnotize you into not coming! Remember all those days of school you missed? That's just not normal! You have to stop seeing him!"

''If I don't see him, he won't hypnotize me into not coming. He'll stop me.'' It was the argument that made him grit his teeth in obvious anger and finally press the gas pedal.

The ride wasn't long enough to Christine. All too soon they were there. Meg – who talked on the phone with her mother the whole time – finally sighed and ended the conversation.

''Peace,'' she declared happily. ''She calmed down at last.'' Then she added: ''Please be quick Chris. We're like, already late because of _her!_'' Frustrated again, she threw her cell phone on the back seat.

''Yeah, yeah,'' Christine muttered, getting out of the car. ''I'll try. Let's just hope he doesn't intend on discussing some kind of important matter with me…'' Like 'don't you dare approach any boys'. That she kept for herself.

And she did hurry, hoping the elevator would somehow be faster today. When the doors finally opened, she rushed out of them. Of course he wasn't waiting for her 'outside'. He'd done that only once, and it was when he'd feared she would run away. She knocked impatiently.

He instructed her to come in. Of course.

He was at the window, pushing the curtains aside and gazing at something in the street.

''Come here,'' he instructed. She obeyed.

He didn't touch her as she thought he would. His hand merely grazed her back in a motion that forced her to come closer to the window. What she saw outside terrified her. The thing she feared the most happened.

Outside, there was Meg. Oh, but she wasn't alone. Her dear, dear friend Raoul was at her side, and both were waving their hands. They were desperately trying to hurry her. But it wasn't a bit comforting. Raoul caught a glimpse of her (or so she thought) and began yelling her name. Meg's squeaks followed.

''Who is this?'' Monsieur asked. His voice dropped down an octave – if that were even possible. And it was cold then, very cold. Her fear strengthened.

She feigned ignorance. ''Who?'' Foolish move.

Catching her by the wrists, he dragged her away from the window. Only this time, there was something different in the way he held her. It wasn't violent. It was as if he were taking special care not to hurt her.

''Is it _the boy_?'' He hissed through his teeth.

''Raoul. He has a name you know!" she spat.

''So it _is_ the boy.'' He returned to the window to take a better look. ''I was wondering what he looked like.''

''Raoul, Raoul. His name is Raoul.''

Sighing, he issued orders. ''Calm down now. It's Raoul. I've got it. _Raoul de Chagny_.'' And suddenly she wanted to hit herself for ever saying his name. It seemed like such a big mistake at the moment.

He spun around on his heels and exited the room.

Of course she couldn't see it, but Christine suspected that his lips curled. She didn't dare follow him. This was the only room that she really knew in the whole apartment, and it was more than disturbing. Taking advantage of the situation, she quickly grabbed her cell phone from her jacket pocket and sent a rather violent and explicit text message to both Meg and Raoul. The content was close to 'Shut the heck up'.

''Now I know that you have a certain problem with medicine." His voice made her gasp in suprise. He always walked with such stealth that it was impossible to hear his approach. ''But it is important that you take some of this.''

Her eyes followed the movement of his hands, and when she caught a glimpse of a bottle of pills she was ready to run the hell out of the office. Apparently he read her mind; he stood between her and the door, blocking the only path to escape.

''Calm down my dear, beautiful Christine,'' he cooed. She almost did, so sweet was his voice. ''It's only Aspirin. Do you believe me?''

Of course she didn't. ''No.''

And why should she? Once - no, twice! – he'd forced pills down her throat. The mere memory made her limbs grow heavy from fear. And he did lie! Oh he did. She remembered him telling her the pill he'd made her take was some deadly thing that could stop one's heart instead of the vulgar vitamin it really was. Of course, it would have been worse had the pills been interchanged, but a lie remained one forever.

''Your father's told me you've been having some muscle pain lately,'' he said softly. Gone were the predatory looks. Even the bottle had mysteriously vanished.

''Well…yes…'' Christine admitted grudgingly, ''But it's nothing serious, it doesn't even bother me.''

''Then you won't object to bringing some Aspirin with you.'' The bottle reappeared. It was entrancing to see how he played with it. She watched, and sometimes her breathing would stop. Her nerves were playing tricks on her, and it was more than she could handle.

Her knees shook, and ignoring his interrogative gaze, Christine shifted lightly from one foot to another before finally allowing herself to fall on a chair. It was a stupid gesture. She was well aware of it. What if he decided her health needed improvement and kept her in town against her – and Gustav's – will. He was at her side in that moment, locking their hands as they trembled together.

''You don't have to go, you know." His whisper was faint. If threats didn't work, then pleas would. Was that his thinking? Something cold and incredibly soft pressed to her wrist. His mask.

Porcelain was such a gentle material. So breakable...

Turning her head away, so not to see him, Christine bit her lip in pure irritation. She couldn't, she _wouldn't _give in.

''But I want to,'' she murmured back, just as broken. She truly was. The situation was breaking her mentally. Why all this pleading? Why the dog-like behaviour? Why the devotion? She felt like a betrayer. Like…

_And Judas Iscariot, one of the twelve, went unto the chief priests, to betray him._

That's how Monsieur described her once. It hurt. It hurt more than her mind allowed her to understand. But - but, did she betray him? Often so. With Raoul. She betrayed him by disobeying, by yelling, by being in late. And such thoughts made her guilt reach a level she never suspected existed. Her insides burned from shame and guilt.

''I - I..'' she stuttered, unsure, feeling worse than the infamous Christ's betrayer. ''I…''

His hands found her face and held it gingerly - as if it weren't just flesh, but some sort of precious jewel.

''Yes,'' he breathed, drawing closer. ''Yes, you don't have to Christine. Stay. Please stay my beautiful, sweet Christine.''

And his words were so gentle, so kind. Almost without noticing, a smile began to forming on her lips and she pressed closer to him. For the first time, _she_ was seeking _his_ touch.

It was so comforting. He was the first person to comfort her. Her father never believed her, making stupid jokes instead. Meg complained about how she had no willpower. Raoul became somehow controlling, deciding what she should or not do. Just the car scene proved it.

And Monsieur…

Monsieur asked nothing in return... He - he was just…loving and caring.

On their own accord, her hands flew to his throat and he allowed the touch. Wide eyed, she slowly caressed the almost-white skin, taking delight when a low vibration was perceived. His humming was angelic, making her forget everything. She almost – oh God was she close to it – asked him to sing. He had sung to her only once, and it was something close to pleasure in a bottle. Christine wished she had one with her now – a bottle – to capture the silkiness of his voice in it and set it free when comfort was needed.

''Will you stay?'' A blond strand of hair was brushed away from her face while his thumb lingered a moment too long on her lips.

His eyes almost undid her. Slowly, barely noticing her surroundings, her lips began to form a quivering 'yes'.

Only some part of her mind was still sane and fought against him. There was no airflow for her unspoken agreement to be heard. And as hard as she tried, her lungs refused to cooperate.

Then she remembered that she hadn't breathed for almost thirty seconds. Her face turned blue and she inhaled sharply.

Her lips parted, air came out, her tongue moved, and a faint nose was heard -

''_Christine!''_

And she was back to her senses.

Raoul's scream was the wake up call. Horror crossed her features and gone was the morbid adoration in her eyes. A myriad of feelings played across her face - incomprehension, disbelief, anger. She had been falling into the trap. Falling into the trap _again, _only to be rescued… How many times were left for her to be rescued? Luck wasn't a good friend, merely an acquaintance who showed when it pleased him.

''I'm going, now." Her voice was hoarse - so much so that she didn't recognize it as belonging to herself. ''I'm leaving. For a week. I'm not staying.'' It seemed very important to recount all of those as clearly as possible.

Monsieur had always been calm. Even in his rages, he'd remained dreadfully in control. But not now.

Now he was truly furious.

How he yelled! How he screamed! How he swore! The window had been shut immediately as he raged.

Never did she hear such particularly harsh words escape his golden throat. Usually, they were all picked carefully to stay in neutral territory. Not today. Today he was far too angry to care. But at least she wasn't the subject of his sudden madness.

Christine wasn't sure whether it was a good or bad thing.

Not being able to stand it, she ran to the door and found it open. Her heart skipped a beat in her enthusiasm, and she reached for the doorknob. She never made it. His gloved hands caught her wrist and pulled her away. Christine prepared herself mentally for some awful life lesson, but he just tilted her chin upward.

Amongst his low mumbling she figured out that he had whispered ''…so close.'' So close? _To what_?

He tried his best to hide the murderous look on his face in order not to scare her. But it was too late. Christine was already hyperventilating.

He spoke clearly then, saying what she expected least of all. ''Was it your legs? Do your legs hurt? Muscles, was it your muscles Christine?'' The quiver of air came from behind the mask. ''Will you take an Aspirin for me now?''

_Anything. I just want to go._

Her weak nod made him back away. She drew a satisfied breath and observed as his fingers moved in some odd way. A coin made its way through them. It looked more like it was floating.

''Magic trick,'' He said softly, throwing his head back and laughing. His wrist twisted in some impossible gesture and as soon as it had come, the coin disappeared. It was replaced by the bottle of Aspirin.

''Prove to me it's an Aspirin," Christine demanded - perhaps more harshly than she intended.

''Clever girl,'' Monsieur mused, sighing at the same time. It seemed an alarming combination. ''You don't buy anything sight unseen. But here. Look my Christine. It's written on the bottle.''

It was true. Relaxing, she allowed his fingers to gently take her jaw before pushing it down. The medicine was bitter on her tongue and she couldn't suppress a shudder. She winced. The phobia wasn't gone, but he was so gentle. It somehow compensated. Chuckling, he left, only to return quickly with a bottle of water. Her hands at her sides, she allowed him to pour the liquid down her burning throat.

''You'll take on per day,'' he instructed, stroking her cheeks adoringly. ''Alright, Christine dear?''

''But-but. There are only five in there! A normal bottle of Aspirin has like fifty or so," she murmured, lost.

''You're leaving for a week, aren't you? It will be enough. More than enough I daresay.''

Christine nodded, eager to get out. He let go of her wrists. She was ready to flee, but once again his words made her freeze.

''Oh, and you'll wear your ring, won't you Christine?''

She couldn't refuse him.

* * *

The ride was long. It was damned long. Meg and Christine played chess but soon abandoned the game because of the many bumps on the road. Both couldn't stop complaining about this and that, and Raoul had to stop multiple times at different fast-food resturaunts so that they could breathe some 'fresh air'. When they finally arrived all were tired and longed to sleep. Unfortunately, the tents couldn't be unfolded and they would have to do everything themselves.

''We'll help you!'' Meg announced. Christine voiced her agreement.

''My God...'' Raoul muttered, returning from the car. ''With your kind of help, I'm sure the grizzly bears will get to us. I don't mean to be offensive-''

''You already are,'' they cut him off, giggling.

''I only mean that you probably don't know how to do this anyway…'' His tone was slowly but surely growing desperate.

_Of course_ nothing worked. But as it was almost morning already, they decided to sit by the fire and eat marshmallows. They could ask other campers for help once they woke up. Being the gentleman that he was, Raoul proposed that they rent two hotel rooms the next day. When Christine arched an eyebrow and suspiciously demanded to know how he got a credit car, he merely chuckled mischievously and affirmed that it was Philippe's.

''Your brother will kill you,'' Christine smiled. She threw a burned marshmallow in the fire and it devoured it with great pleasure, ''At least, once he figures out what you're up to.''

He waved his hand in an irritated gesture. ''Nah. By the time Philippe discovers it, I'll have enough time to _run_ to the Canadian frontier. ''

''Yeah well, knowing your brother he'll probably fly there, wait for you and then shoot your miserable ass.'' Meg said between a yawn and a moan. ''Despite my love for sweets I have to agree that I'm still hungry.''

''I heard grizzly bears love toothpaste,'' Raoul stated with the look of an expert.

''Your point being?'' Christine asked.

''You girls brought a lot of toothpaste." He frowned. ''I swear, I never thought addiction to toothpaste was possible but wow. Maybe if you throw it out of your bags, a little Winnie the Pooh will come along and Meg can shoot him. Mmm. I heard bear's meat is good.''

Eventually, Raoul fell asleep. In normal circumstances they two of them would have probably poked him with a stick, laughing. But they both understood that he was tired from the ride. After all, he wasn't the one yawning and complaining for hours, literally doing nothing constructive.

As morning approached, however, a cold sweat began to cover Christine's forehead. Her hands trembled. She thanked God that Meg didn't notice it. If she did, Raoul would already have been awake. Trying to calm the desperate shaking, she breathed deeply.

It didn't help and soon her whole body was burning. From fever? It was plausible she supposed. All she knew was that she'd never before felt such pain. There was cold. There was heat. Cold heat. Did that even make any sense? Meg's face became blurrier and blurrier until it was reduced to some spots of color. Mostly red. Scarlet, blood red. Her mouth opened and closed in a vain attempt to mutter something, perhaps ask Meg for help. It was already much more than she could handle. Was it her muscles? Were they hurting? Christine couldn't be sure.

''Christine! Christine!'' Somebody was calling her name. For some reason, it seemed unbelievably hilarious. She laughed. Hysterically. Oh wait, it was just Meg.

''I - I ha-ha-have to go to the bathroom…'' She managed to choke out. God! Even breathing became almost impossible.

As soon as she stumbled away, Meg started to shake Raoul. She was panting furiously, more than anxious - maybe as deranged as Christine was at the moment.

''What?'' Raoul sat up, wiping his sleepy eyes. ''What's wrong?''

''It's Christine," Meg murmured nervously, careful not to wake other campers. ''She's…She's not feeling well.''

* * *

Eriks-Punjab-girl : The movie was amazing, no worries :DD

Kchan88 : When I re-read myself I don't think it's creepy and I'm always disappointed, but if you think that it is you make me a happy person ^^

PHLover213 : Yeah, sort of. *Nudges, nudges* :DD

Annonymous : To be honest I kind of planned something but now I don't know where I'm going either XD


	9. Chapter 9

There's a fly flying – obviously – around my computer...It unnerves me. It doesn't want to go away. I am easily pissed off…

* * *

**Chapter 9**

She didn't make it far. After a few steps, Christine collapsed, unable to move. Her body burned - literally _burned_. Like every little girl, she'd once tried ballet. It had been years ago when she was only ten, but the pain she experienced during the lessons was unforgettable. Her instructor had forced the entire class beyond their limits, which she was sure was natural for every aspiring ballerina. Of course, many had abandoned the painful pursuit and Christine was among them. She recalled the aching pain in her legs that had bothered her for days, weeks even. It felt as if her muscles had died and been replaced with something metallic - something sharp and piercing.

Now the feeling was the same. Only now the concentrated pain in her legs was spreading through to her entire body. Her mouth was dry and her lungs worked furiously inhaling and exhaling. Yet she never seemed to get enough oxygen. And that fast panting only caused her to get dizzier by the minute.

Her name was screamed but she chose to ignore it. Instead she concentrated on the wet grass that felt so good against her skin. There was physical contact then as someone lifted her head from the ground. Through the fog that encircled her, she saw Meg's blurry face.

''What's wrong Christine?'' Christine waved her away with an irritated gesture, but Meg didn't let go. Another voice was heard.

''I think she needs water. She's burning up Meg.'' Raoul. Was it Raoul? The familiar voice was masculine, but young so it was probably him.

They lifted her and Christine no longer had the strength to protest as two pair of hands carried her away. It was still rather silent around the campus, and she deduced that they hadn't woken anyone. At least that was comforting. She felt a pillow being placed under her head and a splash of cold water followed. It felt good, very good. Instantly her vision became clearer.

''M-M-Meg ?'' she stuttered her mouth opening and closing, unable to remain still. ''Everything hurts,'' she said faintly.

''Maybe something bit her,'' Raoul suggested, anxiously patting her forehead with a wet cloth. ''Check to see if she has some marks.''

Her sleeves were rolled up, her shoes thrown aside and she felt Meg's hands run over her. They lingered on her neck, checking the strength of her pulse perhaps. Then behind her ears, on her face, fingers.

''No, nothing,'' Meg whispered. ''She said it hurt everywhere. Do you have any aspirin? Maybe Tylenol? Anything to make the pain go away.''

''In my bag, there's some Aspirin," she murmured.

Raoul jerked away to find the bottle. He didn't have to search for long. Soon he was titling Christine's head up and pushing her cheeks for her jaw to drop. Meg provided some cold water and the deliciousness of it felt incredibly good down her raw, burning throat. Just like a stream.

And relief soon came. It began as a soft coldness in her legs before spreading through her whole body which felt like it was on fire. Her breathing steadied and soon was calm and controlled. A smile of relief grazed her lips. Noticing her shivers, Meg covered her with a blanket and leaned closer.

''Christine what was that?'' She asked quietly. She was anxious, but at least her friend was alright – or at least capable of talking.

If she could have, Christine would have shrugged. But every movement caused her body to ache and she refused to feel pain again. Lying there, unmoving, created such a sensation of pure delight that, delirious, she considered being sick again. As long as it guaranteed the same sort of paradise after.

''I don't know,'' she confessed when the trembling ceased. ''But my muscles hurt, so…''

''Muscle pain?'' Confusion tinged Meg's voice. ''It looked as if you were having a seizure. Has this happened before?''

''No. Oh but Meg I feel so good right now. Give me my cell phone please.''

Even while sick, she had to check if Monsieur had called. She knew he wouldn't like it if she ignored him for even an hour. No excuse for such behavior would work with him.. Sighing, Meg departed to search her bag again and soon came back with the phone. Christine turned it on and indeed there were many missed calls. Most were from 'Private Number', and only one was from her father. It saddened her a little.

''Private conversation with dad,'' she murmured. Mouthing an 'oh', Meg left with Raoul. They were several feet away before Christine was sure they couldn't hear her. If she said she was really going to call, she was sure that Raoul would have snatched her phone and buried it in the woods.

Sighing, she scrolled through her calls menu. All calls had been made between three and four A.M. with an interval of five minutes or so, and only the last one had had a difference of about twenty or thirty minutes. Just before she got sick, Christine thought with a smirk.

She called her dad first, but his cell phone was turned off. Well, he was probably sleeping or working or whatever he did in his spare time. So with trembling fingers, she dialed _his_ not so private number. To her amazement, he didn't answer immediately. Instead, he let the phone ring three or four times. She was close to hanging up when suddenly – and surprisingly – his voice greeted her.

''Christine, dear,'' he said softly, a teacher praising his favourite pupil. ''So late? I thought you were sleeping.''

''Why did you call then?'' she asked, a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

''Because I was worried.'' Oh. That seemed plausible.

She relaxed and even smiled, allowing her head to fall back on the pillow. ''I had some sort of attack," she murmured, unsure of why she was confessing. ''It really hurt even though I don't remember much.''

''Oh!'' he exclaimed. ''Would you like to come back? It may be serious.''

''No." Her voice was quiet. ''I took an Aspirin you gave me and now I'm better. Thanks for making me take them with me. Meg and Raoul don't have any with them.''

''My pleasure,'' Monsieur whispered. ''But if you continue to be unwell, what do you plan on doing? Calling your father?

''Of course not!'' Christine immediately cried out - a little too loudly. ''Dad will be so worried. I will wait for him to come back, but if this thing continues… I don't know, I'll call you probably.''

''A wise decision.'' There was a small moment of silence, during which Christine bit her lip harshly. He was so kind at that moment, so caring that she almost wished to ask him to come and get her. ''I'll be here if you need me. Always. Now you should sleep, dear Christine. Please call me in the morning.''

''I will,'' she murmured. She spoke a quick goodnight before hanging up.

Meg and Raoul came back soon after and kept asking questions about what she told her father and how he reacted. Christine, tired, merely switched her father with Monsieur. She told them that she'd refused when he'd gotten nervous offered to come and get her.

''Maybe you should go home, " Raoul suggested. He offered her some juice and she declined. She wanted nothing but fresh, cold air and there was plenty in supply.

''I could call mom,'' Meg offered, ''You know how much she cares about you. She'll come get us in no time. We'll be home soon enough.''

''No,'' Christine protested weakly, pushing Meg's hand again. She was taking her temperature every minute… as if it would change drastically in one second. It was becoming irritating the way they treated her like a sick toddler. ''I'm good now, got it? Good. Alright. I feel nice. We'll be okay for the week.''

''I don't know…'' Meg whined. ''Come on Chris. You should really see a doctor.''

''Okay, look guys,'' Raoul sighed, running his hand through his blond hair. It was wet with sweat. ''I'll try to find a doctor's office here at Myrtle Beach and I'll pay for Christine's visit-''

''No…''

''Yes.'' He cut her off sharply. ''And if it's something that demands serious attention, we're going back. You heard me Christine? We're going back right away.''

''Alright," Christine finally agreed. ''I'll sleep a little. Fight the mosquitoes off you great defenders.''

She slept nicely. Never before was she so relaxed. Nothing hurt anymore. Christine felt as if she were on a cloud. She was reluctant to wake up. Eventually she had to because other campers were shouting and laughing. Opening her eyes, she saw a smiling Raoul and a panting Meg. They were staring with obvious triumph at the tents that they somehow managed to unfold and organize.

Calling her a sleepy head, Raoul passed by her to talk with a man. Meg crashed by her side and explained that the man Raoul was talking to was the guy who helped them out. He returned shortly. Raoul had been true to his word and was indeed asking people around if there was a doctor's office close. When Christine whined that she was fine, very fine, he refused to listen to her and continued his search. Unfortunately (for him), that morning he found no one.

''I told you it was useless…'' Christine mumbled, taking another bite of a surprisingly good croissant they bought at some local fast-food resturaunt.

''You always say that," he muttered, eying his cell phone. "Hey would you like to go to the beach girls? It's pretty hot here.''

''Yes!'' Meg squeaked. ''I already put my bathing suit on under this. It's the black one with flowers.''

''Oh yeah!'' Christine exclaimed. ''The one that's worth a fortune? That's cool.''

"Thanks. I've always dreamed of hearing about what's under your clothes, Meg," Raoul moaned. "You two ready to go?'' They both nodded excitedly.

Once there, Raoul couldn't wait to get into the water. "I'm going in girls," he shouted, running to the shore. "You coming?"

"Yeah. How about you Chris?''

''Um. I have to call…dad. I'll be there shortly," Christine murmured.

Nodding, Meg left, leaving her alone. Her battery was already dying and she wondered where she could find a place to charge her cell phone. She'd probably be allowed to do so in some restaurant as long as she purchased something. It was always like that.

The cell phone rang before she even thought about dialing the number she knew better than her own. What upset her was that she actually smiled when reading the all-too familiar 'Private Number' on the display. Her resistance against Monsieur was deteriorating. It was as he was hypnotizing her with his kindness, if that even made sense. But he was nice, so nice lately, and she longed for more peaceful days. It was similar to a dog that's beaten and then caressed soon after. She was confused that it was almost painful.

''Hello Monsieur,'' she greeted, looking around to make sure that neither Raoul or Meg were watching her. O,r knowing Raoul, spying.

''Hello, dear." Monsieur's greeting was cheerful. ''How are you feeling? Please tell me you are better. I cannot bear to see know that you're sick.''

''No, I'm alright,'' she reassured him, smiling. ''I don't know what happened last night, but I don't think it'll happen again. Maybe I ate something or it was…well, something…else. Anyway, I don't know.''

''Brilliant with words, as always, darling," he mused and she was glad he couldn't see the fierce blush that illuminated her cheeks.

''Umm…'' Christine said intelligently, ''I'm going swimming now Monsieur. I'll call you later, alright? Before dinner.''

''Of course, of course,'' he agreed quickly – perhaps _too_ quickly. ''Take care.''

Later on, she was vague when they asked her (again!) what she and her dad talked about. Usually, Christine would at least tell Meg that her 'doctor' called her, but with Raoul present, she couldn't. He would freak out and problems would ensue.

But for now... Looking over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Raoul and Meg, happily splashing each other. Meg was yelling her lungs out about how he was an idiot, but Raoul only laughed. When they waved at her to come, Christine finally succumbed.

* * *

''You're shaking,'' Meg remarked, passing Christine an already wet towel.

''Geez thanks,'' she mused, throwing it at Raoul who ignored her completely. Instead, he eying the surroundings to find some restaurant.

''No, seriously Christine you're shaking," Meg insisted, coming closer and seizing her hand. ''What the hell _is_ that? Look at your hands.''

Sighing, Christine looked down to satisfy her friend. Her eyes immediately widened and she tore them away from Meg. Her hands were indeed shaking; badly. Just like an alcoholic in serious need of a drink.

''I'm cold," she mumbled. It seemed like a plausible excuse. ''Raoul!'' she called out. ''Give me back the damned towel.''

After wrapping it around her and calming Meg down a little, Christine managed not to think too much about what was happening. _It was the cold_ she kept convincing herself. The cold and nothing else. Eventually, Raoul stumbled upon a nice place and told them to choose a table while he ordered something.

''You're pale.'' Meg apparently wasn't going to drop the subject.

''I am not," Christine growled back. ''You 've walked around in a bathing suit with only a towel before. It's the cold, I'm telling you.''

''I'm going to tell Raoul and he'll drag you to a doctor.''

''You wouldn't dare!'' Christine exclaimed. ''Stop it right now. My – '' there she cut herself and stayed silent for a second, carefully choosing her words. ''My father told me he would come and get me if something was still wrong.''

Meg winced and rolled her eyes, rubbing her temples at the same time. ''Well maybe you should call your father…" she murmured.

''No. I just need an Aspirin.''

''Muscle pain?'' Meg guessed.

''Yeah, again.''

Christine reached for her purse under the table – her hands were shaking more violently now and she refused to acknowledge Meg's supposition that _perhaps_ the cold air wasn't the cause of it. Her fingers found the bottle quickly and she shook it, making sure there were still some pills inside. Satisfied, Christine opened it, quickly took a pill, and forced herself to swallow it without water.

Raoul surprised the both of them.

He arrived with three plates of something that vaguely remained tacos. Nevertheless, it turned out to be good. Even Meg – who was far more afraid of getting fat than of the world's end – praised him for his choice. Christine was in a peaceful little fog, only half aware of what they were talking about. She merely nodded or mumbled a confused yes or no from time to time. Her body relaxed entirely and relief came quickly. It felt good.

She looked at her cell phone and realized it was time for her to call Monsieur. Excusing herself, she went outside. It wasn't as hot as it had been, and the cool breeze felt good on her skin. She tried to dial her father's number again, but again the automatic voice declared he wasn't able to answer.

_While Monsieur always was_, she thought bitterly, sighing.

There were no missed calls or texts and it surprised her greatly. Usually, he called until she spoke to him. Christine dialed Monsieur's number and waited to be connected. She didn't have to wait long.

''Christine!'' he greeted her cheerfully. ''How are you, my darling? How are you feeling?''

''I was kind of sick like an hour ago,'' she confessed. ''My hands shook like some kind of junkie. I think I have a fever or something and my whole body burned. But I took an Aspirin like you said and now I'm good again.''

''How many pills are left?'' Monsieur asked all too quickly. Something in his tone didn't please Christine at all. It was close to triumph.

''Three," she answered, her voice weary. She didn't understand where this conversation was heading. ''But I'll buy more at the drugstore once those are gone.''

''I'm sure you will.'' He laughed, his voice low and pleasant. ''What did you do today? Is it fun there?''

''Yes." Christine smiled even though he couldn't see her. Somehow it felt nice and right to tell him everything when he wasn't controlling and demanding. She even wanted to. Their quick conversations weren't a burden anymore. ''But Raoul found a dead fish in the water…Ew, can you imagine? A dead fish! Of course I got out.''

''Not all things that seem dead truly are,'' he said after a moment of silence. His tone was heavy and dramatic and she thought of philosophers. ''Don't judge a book by its cover, Christine.''

She rolled her eyes. ''Geez, it was only a fish.''

''Yes, you're right. My mind was wondering," Monsieur apologized. ''Tell me Christine, do you still wear the ring?''

She bit her lip. What was she supposed to say? Christine had taken off the damned thing in fear she would lose it in the water. It was a logical move - an intelligent one even. But Monsieur had his own twisted logic and, knowing him, he would yell at her once discovering the truth.

He was waiting for her answer patiently. She could tell by his regular breathing. It was so low and directly in her ear. It was almost as if he were whispering something inaudible. It was so low, almost directly in her ear. The thought made her shiver.

He wouldn't be happy if she lied or if she told the truth.

''I…'' She stuttered, eying her bare finger in fear. ''I was scared that I might loose it. So I took it off. The water, you understand…And it seems to be such an expensive thing…''

''Christine,'' he said slowly, sending shivers down her spine again. ''I want it on at all time. Water or no water. It's gold, Christine; salt will do nothing to it. And it's been made especially for your finger, so there's very little chance you will lose it.''

''Yes, but -'' Christine tried to interrupt, only to be cut off by his harsh voice.

''It was made _specially _for your finger. Left hand, fourth finger, Christine. It is there that you wear it, correct?''

_No_. And then her mind began to rewind back to the conversation she had with Raoul.

_Christine, if you wear the ring on the left hand, fourth finger it means that you're married or maybe engaged. _

God, oh why couldn't he have just chosen another damned finger! It's not as if she didn't have nine others that would do just as well.

Maybe he just went by the old technique of eenie-meenie? No, of course not. It was a weak suggestion. Monsieur wasn't stupid, nor was he childish in any way. He did everything for a reason. Only Christine wasn't sure she wanted to know about the one behind the ring and the fourth finger. She tried and failed to think about something else.

''Yes, you're right," she finally murmured. Christine switched the ring's place on her finger.

''I want you to have a good vacation," Monsieur reminded her. ''But please call me if you're not feeling well again.''

''I called you this time, didn't I? Don't worry. If it gets any worse I'll let you know, though I don't think you'll be happy to drive to Myrtle Beach.''

_Shit!_ Christine cursed under her breath. All this time she'd been trying to get away from him, lying about how they were undecided about the location. Now she'd revealed it. How stupid could she be? She bit her lip. Monsieur was silent for all of five seconds.

''So you finally set for Myrtle Beach?'' he asked incredulously. ''Well it's a nice place indeed. And don't worry, I'll get you if something goes wrong.''

Christine hurried to reassure him. ''No, no, I'm fine.'' What a pathetic lie. ''I said that I'll buy more Aspirin if this thing continues. And Raoul promised that we'll go to a doctor soon.''

''No!'' He boomed at the other end. Christine almost let go of the cell phone, gasping loudly. She hadn't heard him that upset or angry over something since their last conversation regarding Raoul. ''You will not see a specialist, Christine. Am I clear? Not under any circumstances. Not there. Not without me.''

This was strange. Monsieur always cared about her health. Even a sneeze was to be taken seriously. The great excuse was that she always had to be present at their sessions. But now he was forbidding her to see a doctor. Why? A simple doctor? A person who could prevent her from missing time with him?

But she would listen to him, she knew. She always did. Just as she always came back whether she wanted to or not. The need was there. Still, there was an ounce of resistance left.

''But why can't I?'' Christine began softly. ''I mean, he's going to help me…''

''I said no!'' he roared. ''I'm sorry Christine, but the answer is no. Don't ask questions. You should go to sleep soon. And don't forget your Aspirin in the morning.'' Ha. The council of a father.

''Alright, alright. I will. Goodnight Monsieur.''


	10. Chapter 10

I'm sorry if this chapter sucks – SUCKS BADLY – but I couldn't let Eriks-Punjab-Girl die, you see XD. And my beta has computer problems so I'm posting this without her approval, sorry future world dictator.

**Also be sure to check my new Phantom story; We covet what we see.** You'll see the word 'crossover' but don't worry, there's nothing in it…It's just an AU Phantom story, much like this one. Actually it's my new baby.

I love you all. Emmanuelle.

* * *

**Chapter 10**

In the morning Raoul presented her with exciting news; over the night he chatted with others campers and among them was a doctor. He was visiting his friends at the campus and happened to smile at Raoul's request. Meg was excited, Christine not that much.

''I don't know if it's a good idea.'' She mumbled.

''He's a great guy,'' Raoul pressed, ''Not even old and hairy man like I'm sure you're imagining him.'' She giggled at the mental image. ''Really Christine, believe me.''

''I don't know…'' She still wasn't sure – but how was she supposed to tell him that her psychiatrist forbade her to ask for medical care ? It sounded silly. ''What's his name ?''

''Frederick Hans.'' He smiled as if he had just won the jackpot. ''He's such a cool guy, we talked for hours. I think he's about thirty.''

''I don't really care about his age.'' Christine pointed out. ''Look Raoul, I'm good. Really.''

He rolled his eyes. ''Yeah Christine, you said the same damn thing hours ago when you took your Aspirin.''

''But I really do feel great now.''

''Christine it won't last.'' Raoul stated. ''Look, if you don't go I'll drag you there. And don't look at Meg, you know very well she will help me.''

And so she succumbed. It was just a visit after all; it wasn't as if Monsieur was watching her this very moment. That thought helped her to relax. Yes, he wouldn't know, it would be her own little secret. After all what could that Doctor say to her ? That she had muscle pain ? Of that she was already aware. All the morning Christine was anxious, the reason behind it was that her cell phone was slowly dying from lack of battery. Oh, well. She could always use a payphone to call Monsieur, and it would be a relief not to be subject to his demands. This way he wouldn't be able to control her day and night.

Not that he did it now. It was strange to witness the change in his demeanour – now that she was gone he gave up trying to forbid her this and that. He wasn't even questioning her about Raoul and whatever she was doing in his company. Perhaps the fact that Meg was there too made him feel more secure. An hour before dinner her father called. Christine was ecstatic. They hadn't talked since the day he left for Europe. If she was right he now was in Berlin.

''Dad !'' She greeted him cheerfully. ''Why didn't you call me ?''

He laughed. ''Why didn't you call _me_, Christine ?''

''I did call you.'' She affirmed. ''But you didn't answer. C'mon, tell me what the hell you were doing.''

''This and that. Nothing that might interest you.'' Gustav was vague – just like always. It made Christine smile wider. ''So, what are you doing with…What's his name…Oh yes. Raaoouuul ?''

''Dad !'' She exclaimed.

''What ?'' He chuckled. ''Don't lie to me, Christine Daaé. You have a crush on him.''

''I do not.''

Gustav tsked. ''Oh Christine, I'm your father, you can tell me. Oh my, oh my. My little girl is in love.''

Christine rolled her eyes in desperation. ''Well you see dad, that's the thing. You are the father; I'm not supposed to tell you such things. Anyway, how's your heart ?''

He answered too quickly which made her wonder if he was lying to her at that very instant. ''I'm fine honey, really.'' She stayed silent. ''Alright, alright. If it will make you feel better I'll visit a doctor. Berlin has the best ones.''

''Yes, it will make me feel better.'' Christine sighed. ''Dad, take care. Okay, I'm going to the beach now. Ciao.''

Gustav imitated a kiss at the other end. ''I'm not that old you know.''

''Yeah, yeah.'' Saying a quick goodbye she hung up. The day promised to be good.

* * *

Raoul hadn't lied. Frederick Hans was indeed a great man…and a very handsome one. Both Meg and Christine stared at him as he walked out of his office, his black hair almost glued to his scalp with some gel and shinning blue eyes fixated on…Raoul. Yeah, that crashed their hopes right here and right there. He was young, thirty if not thirty one, and had this allure of a male model.

''Who am I supposed to see ?'' He asked with a smile after Raoul and he exchanged a handshake.

Raoul titled his head to the side, pointing at Christine. ''Christine Daaé.'' He presented her. Christine realized it was the time for her to get up and reluctantly did so. ''She has some problems.''

''If you will please follow me.'' Frederick smiled, gesturing to the door he just opened when joining them.

Christine nodded, as if in a daze, and did so. His office was very white and smelled like a hospital. That sure didn't please her. Plus she had the time to catch a glimpse of one or two syringes – that wasn't comforting.

''So, Christine – Oh, pardon me, may I call you Christine ?'' She murmured a quick and confused yes, blushing at the same time. ''What is bothering you, Christine ?''

Incertitude assaulted her once again. What if what she did was an error ? Would Monsieur be very angry with her if he discovered. But there was absolutely no chance he would. No one could tell him about what happened.

''Well…'' She began hesitantly, ''I kind of have muscle pain. I know that I'm not very clear, but I just can't describe it.''

''I see.'' The doctor nodded. ''Are you an athlete ?''

Christine blinked before laughing. ''Hardly.''

''Okay,'' Frederick wrote something on his notepad, ''Have you done some intense physical exercise lately ?''

She thought about it for a while. Was sleeping and doing literally nothing an intense physical activity ? No. Shrugging she answered freely, ''No.''

It was his turn to laugh. ''Well, Christine, why would you suffer from muscle pain then ?'' Her shoulders rose and fell in a questioning gesture. ''Perhaps it's something else. What do you think ?''

It seemed logical. ''Yes, maybe Doctor.''

''I will have to perform a quick examination,'' He warned her, ''Please lie down over there.''

Christine obeyed. His hands were light on her as he touched her quickly, frowning sometimes, expressing absolutely nothing the next moment. She thought about Meg who was behind the wall and how she would burn with jealousy later when she would tell her that the handsome Frederick Hans touched her.

''Christine,'' He said, pulling her out of her reverie, ''I don't see anything wrong with you. Is there something else you feel during those crisis ?''

''I feel very tired and it hurts everywhere.''

''You may be anemic,'' Frederick sighed, ''However in order for me to be sure about it I will have to take some blood from you.''

Christine nodded. It was a normal demand, there was nothing strange in it, and she was ready to bear with the pain. God…but she still hated needles. However it was quite quick, she felt a little pain but it was soon gone. She blinked when Frederick walked away.

''It's over,'' He affirmed, ''I'll send the results to your family Doctor, could you please tell me his name and clinic's address ?''

''Yeah,'' Christine smiled, ''It's Mrs. Esme Jackson.'' When she finally finished telling him everything he had to know, the good Doctor opened the door and called Raoul.

She heard him whispering to Raoul that there was probably nothing wrong with her and then asked how they planned to pay for the visit. There Christine grew red; of course she had money with her, but it was from enough. Raoul answered something and left. When Christine walked out of the office she saw him talk with the secretary and sign some papers.

''What's he's doing ?'' She asked Meg, raising an eyebrow.

''Ahh ?'' Meg, who was staring at the office's door that just closed, ''Oh, he's just paying. See the credit card ?''

''I feel bad.'' Christine whispered. ''Oh God, I'll have to tell dad about it…I mean, I can't just take money from Raoul like this.''

''It's not my money,'' Raoul, who heard her, echoed, ''It's Philippe's, and believe me, Christine, he has more than he needs.''

''Yeah, whatever.'' She muttered.

Despite her wish to keep it secret from her father she had to come to the conclusion that Gustav would learn one way or another. Mrs. Jackson wasn't the style of woman who kept secrets from the parents. Ugh, sometimes she truly hated her. However what Christine feared most was that Monsieur would be informed by her own father.

Oh yes, that was very possible.

* * *

They were lazily lying on some grass – God, it had been so difficult to find some. When the sun was very high in the sky it was, obviously, unbearably hot and so everyone sought shadows to cool down. Meg became a champion in this game; she always found the best spots. So now they were relaxing. Christine sipped tiredly on her cold Coke.

''Your cell is ringing…'' Meg muttered, her words muffled by the hat on her face.

''Who's ?'' She mumbled quietly.

''Yours, Christine.''

Christine wondered whether it was her father or someone else. She rolled onto her side, not caring if she missed the call, and began to search her purse. It was nearly impossible to find the small annoying thins and finally succeeded in the task.

''Hmmm ?'' She asked, fighting with a yawn. ''Hello ?''

''Christine.''

The cold voice made her almost jump on the spot. She would have to lie now and if she did it, Raoul would suspect something. The last thing she wanted was for him to know that she wasn't just lying to Monsieur…but to him to. Somehow it seemed like an awful betrayal.

Whispering that she would be back and that it was her father, Christine distanced herself from Meg and Raoul. Monsieur patiently waited when she finally pressed the handset to her ear.

''Monsieur,'' She greeted him, ''Hi.''

''Hello dear.'' He said almost mechanically as if it was some text he learned and now was forced to recite. ''How are you doing ? Why didn't you call me today ?''

Ah, there she could tell the whole truth. ''My cell phone is dying, Monsieur. I'm afraid I will not have enough battery for the week.''

''Oh.'' His tone bore absolutely no emotion, making her wonder whatever was the matter. ''It's alright, dear, there's always payphones.''

''Yes. There's always payphones.'' Christine confirmed wearily. What was wrong with him ? He was so…_calm_.

''What did you do today ?''

Shit. Closing her eyes, Christine began to think about what she could tell him. Routine seemed more like truth and so she opted for it. Nothing much, the beach, fast-foods, just some random stuff…When she told him so he murmured something about how happy he was for her.

''Tell me Christine,'' His voice suddenly came alive again – it even sounded excited, ''How much Aspirin is there left ?''

''Wait a moment.'' She sighed, reaching for her purse. The bottle wasn't hard to find, it was safely tugged into some secret pocket. ''Two.'' She answered. ''That's it, two. But there's a drug store close so I don't bother with it.''

''You don't plan on seeing a Doctor, aren't you ?'' Christine clearly heard the threat in his tone.

''No !'' She exclaimed – hum, this was good, it sounded like truth. ''You told me not to and so I didn't.''

''Thank you Christine.''

That's when the first pang of guilt hit her. Right in the chest, _violently_. Once as a child she stole a candy from Meg – oh it was nothing serious and she was so young then, but later Meg cried and Christine felt awful. Now the same demons were tearing her apart. He placed trust in her, helped her, cared about her physical discomfort going to offer some pills – such a banal thing as Aspirin – when she forgot about him.

What just happened felt like betrayal in its' purest form.

She had to bit her lip to escape from moaning, disgusted with herself. She should have never listened to Raoul and refuse to see the good Dr. Hans no matter how handsome he was. Now her result would be sent to Mrs. Jackson and then eventually find her father and of course Monsieur. Gustav had no secrets from her psychiatrist.

''Christine ?'' She could almost see his mask rise – it always happened when he asked questions. Perhaps during those moments the eyebrows she never saw went up as well. ''Are you there ?''

''Yes, yes.'' Christine quickly assured him. ''It's just that…I don't hear you well. I told you – my battery is dying.''

''Ah. Of course.'' He was silent for a short while. ''What are you planning to do now ? Are you with that friend of yours.''

It didn't take long to realize that he was referring to Raoul, however Christine decided to play the deaf card.

''Hum ? Who are you talking about ?''

''The boy.'' Monsieur sighed in exasperation.

''Ah, sorry. I thought you meant Meg.'' Really, she was getting better and better and lying. In some unexplainable way it was disturbing. ''Nothing. We just bought some Coke now.''

''And ?''

It was her turn to sigh and roll her eyes. What was there to tell ? They bought Cokes – it wasn't as if they were now playing catch with it.

''We're drinking them.'' Christine breathed. ''Yeah, because it's really hot here.''

''So I gathered.'' She was now impatiently waiting for the battery to die. There was something about him that was very wrong today and hell did she hate it.

''Hum Monsieur,'' She said as carefully as she could, ''I'll be going now. I'll call you tomorrow with a payphone. I'm afraid my cell phone will be dead by the night and I still have to call my father one more time.''

''Your father called ?'' He questioned.

''Yeah !'' A smile crept on her lips. ''Finally. I was waiting and waiting but apparently he was busy with his work. But I understand…''

''Alright, goodbye Christine.''

''Goodbye Monsieur. Christine was ready to throw the cell phone back in her purse but suddenly his voice was heard at the other end.

''No doctors,'' He warned in a tone that was both dead and left no room to arguing, ''And wear your ring. Where is now ?''

Somewhere. Despite his warnings Christine had taken it off one more time.

''Left hand fourth finger.'' She sighed. ''I know Monsieur, I know. I'm wearing it. ''

''Good.''

* * *

She expected the Aspirins to finish one day – however it happened quicker than she assumed. That morning Christine experienced a new crisis. By now she became quite good at hiding her pain from Raoul and Meg. Her hands trembled while she searched her purse for the bottle and when her fingers closed around it a sigh of satisfaction passed through her lips.

When she shook it the comforting sound of pills hitting the walls did not come. Christine opened her bloodshot eyes; it had been impossible to sleep this night. Instantly she panicked. There was no more Aspirin and her whole body was on fire. Luckily for her Meg and Raoul were outside, chatting with a girl they met earlier – Isabel. She was nice. Then the thought that Meg was a ballerina hit her.

Ballerina often experienced pain and she knew for sure that Meg carried some drugstore painkillers with her at all time. Trying to be as quiet as possible, Christine pulled Meg's bag toward her and began the hunt for relief. Socks – not it, toothpaste – not it, cosmetics – certainly not it, Tylenol – hum, it wasn't Aspirin but had the same effects. Christine didn't even bother with a bottle of water and swallowed to pills, nearly choking on them. It was disgusting; so bitter.

Usually the coveted relief came in some minutes, but as Christine closed her eyes and remained still on her back, she felt nothing new. The pain was still there, she was still trembling and by God did her eyes hurt as if she had stared too long at the sun. She wasn't sure how many hours passed before the feelings that shook her body became more violent and nausea came.

This was it. It was more than she could bear.

She considered the option of calling her father- but what could he do ? He was in Berlin and by hell; it wasn't close to Myrtle Beach. And so her fingers dialed the number of the only other person available at the moment.

Monsieur answered almost instantly, he didn't even sound sleepy despite the fact that it was two or three in the morning.

''What's wrong Christine, dear ?'' He asked anxiously.

Never before had she been so glad that her battery hadn't the time to die. ''I need an advice.'' She whispered in a voice that she didn't recognize as hers ; it was so hoarse.

''What is it ?'' He tensed.

''It's just that…I'm really not feeling well.'' She stuttered.


	11. Chapter 11

Yes ! I finally updated and it's the chapter you were all waiting for, I know it =)

Hum, I don't have much to say save that I'm back from Vegas and my red hair is still there. But it's fading so I'm not loosing hope….

Did you miss me ? I want to know ^^

Oh, an the question about toxins was very interesting. I'll probably not mention which, or maybe I will, since I'm writing mostly from Christine's point of view and she is ignorant of those things. I also know that Tylenol and Aspirin are two different things but once again, when I was sixteen I didn't know it, and Christine neither =)

* * *

**Chapter 11**

Questions fell upon her just like she knew they would. Are you alright ? What exactly is wrong ? What are you doing ? After a while she rolled her eyes and moaned, indicating she had nor the will or power to answer.

''I don't know !'' She shrieked a minute later, ''I just ran out of Aspirin so I tried Meg's Tylenol and it's not working…''

''Don't take any other medication !'' He yelled at the other end. ''Do you understand me, Christine ? Do not take any other medication.''

Her eyes widened. ''But it's killing me…I told you, I'm really not feeling well.''

''Would you like to come back ?''

Christine bit her lip, contemplating the thought. Gustav would be frantic if he came to discover that something was wrong with her and so it was the last thing she wanted. She doubted Monsieur would call him but still there was this possibility. And then there was the infamous question; what would she do once back ? Of course there was the set of keys her father left her, she could very well be alone for a week or two. It wasn't the first time it happened, but…Yes, there was this but, how would she return ?

''I won't tell your father.'' Monsieur said quietly, as if reading her thoughts.

There was a new shot of pain through her body. ''I-I, I don't know…I don't want to ruin Meg and Raoul's vacation. They will have to take me back after all.''

Apparently he had an answer for everything. Christine wasn't certain whether it was reassuring or not; everything was always calculated with him, he had control of everything.

''I could take you home.'' He coaxed gently. ''Christine, dear Christine, you aren't feeling well, you probably need medical assistance.''

She frowned. ''But-but you said I was forbidden to go to a doctor.''

''Yes, but never forget I am a specialist myself.'' Yes, well that cut her off in an instant.

Christine rolled over to look outside the tent. Meg was talking with some guy while Raoul was fighting with marshmallows. They really seemed to enjoy the trip…it would be a pity if they would have to abandon it because of her.

''I don't know…'' She whispered again, though something in her tone slightly gave in. ''I really like it here and-and I don't want to go.''

''Christine, stop being a child.'' He scowled her. ''You can't play around with your health.''

''But-''

''I'll buy you a plane ticket. Be at the airport at, let's say, two in the afternoon.'' She gritted her teeth. ''Are you listening ?''

She snapped. ''Are you kidding me ? It's Myrtle Beach ! Why aren't you just driving here ?''

Monsieur laughed a little and the sound caused her blood to chill. ''Why, because it's faster that way.''

Now was when she began to regret her decision to call him. But he had been so kind and not an ounce controlling during the last days, she thought there would be no danger. Apparently it was easy for him to come back to his old self. His breathing was controlled as he patiently waited for her to utter a word but for a countless time nothing came to her mind. Christine stared at her hands – those hands that trembled so for an unknown reason and for the first time she seriously feared there was something wrong with her.

She always had been easy to influence, even the TV reporters scared the wits out of her when they talked about a maniac operating in France for lack of another example. France was far away and still she feared. The way he talked to her was all-knowing and despite the fact she didn't want to, Christine felt she was very close to give in. Maybe it was for the best. Raoul and Meg would enjoy the rest of the week together and then come back.

''What's wrong with me ?'' She murmured. ''I don't understand, I really don't… Do you think it's something dangerous ?''

''Oh, Christine, no, no, of course not !'' He began reassuring her. His voice became calmer, softer, honey laced with hot milk. ''Don't be afraid, I'll take care of you. I'll make it better. Do you believe me ?''

''Yes-yes.'' She stuttered.

''Good. Now you really ought to have a good night sleep.'' He murmured. ''Try to sleep, dear, try to sleep. It will be better tomorrow.''

''Alright.'' Christine agreed quietly, foggy with pain and fatigue.

* * *

In the morning Raoul was the one to throw a tantrum, or rather a fight of some sort. He was angry – and anxious though he tried to hide it – that he wasn't the one to take her back. Finally Meg appeared to save the day when she finally snapped and yelled at him.

''Well I think it's fucking better if she gets home by plane !'' She screamed. ''It'll be faster. Do you want her to be sick in the car for hours and hours ?''

That quieted him immediately. Tiredly, he ran his hands though his blond hair and sighed. ''I'm sorry Christine, Meg is right.''

''It's okay.'' She murmured, wrapped in her blanket. ''You can still drive me to the airport.'' Then Christine added with a little wink, ''Not that you really have a choice in the matter.''

''Yes, of course.'' Raoul smiled faintly.

He then left, announcing that the fuel was low. Just when he disappeared out of sight Meg crept close and began her interrogation. Gosh, it wasn't getting any better.

''Seriously,'' She growled, ''What the hell are you playing at, Christine ? I know your dad isn't back. You can fool Raoul but not me, girl ! Are you leaving because _he_ told you to ?''

''No !'' Christine rebelled. ''I'm leaving because I'm not feeling well. Isn't it what you both wanted ?''

''Yes !'' Meg squealed. ''But with us, Chris, with us ! Not with him. He controls you, all the time, can't you see it ?''

''No he doesn't.'' She growled in return. ''He is just overprotective – that's alright ! My dad too is.''

''He is not your dad !'' The brunette then yelled at the top of her lungs and some head turned to stare at them. She paid them no heed. ''Nor is he acting like one. Geez, he's just so strange. Stop seeing him, for your sake Chris, stop seeing him.''

She answered quite plainly, ''No.'' More because she didn't have anything else to say than because Meg was right. And after she didn't have a choice. He had grown on her, like a parasite of some sort and she wasn't certain if leaving him would affect her in a good way.

''Just take me to the airport.'' Christine whispered, turning her back to Meg. ''I'm not feeling well and I'm going back home.''

''Yeah, to stay there alone ?'' Meg mocked. ''Somehow I doubt your dear psychiatrist will allow this.''

She said nothing but her blood ran cold –even her heartbeat was so loud it deafened every other sound around. At some point Meg was right in her statement, there had to be a catch somewhere. What would it be like when she would be back ? Would she just walk back to Mrs. Giry and announce she was unwell ? That didn't seem right.

Her head hurt and so she stopped thinking. She had her set of keys and the house was vacant, everything would be alright. Only with those thoughts racing through her mind could Christine relax a little.

* * *

She was sulking – seriously sulking, staring at the airports electronic clock. Minutes passed; soon it would be too late to catch her flight. There was a childish excitement coursing through her veins. An airport was a public place with high security. It simply was impossible to walk around with a mask, and so Christine was anxious. Would she finally see his face ? What it would look like ? Was he handsome or just normal ? But there was also fear in her. For so long he had been nothing more than a black –sometimes white – mask. It was easy to paint every imaginable feature on that piece of porcelain.

She was scared of disappointment because suddenly he would become someone, not just a beautiful voice.

''Maybe you should go.'' Meg suggested tentatively.

''I don't even have my ticket.'' She whispered. ''He said he would buy it.''

''Ah.''

And they were silent once more. Raoul came back with coffee which Christine declined. Everything was making her sick. There was a tall blond man making his way through the crowd and because she had nothing better to do, she observed him. He was searching someone apparently or maybe was just lost, turning his head from side to side, sometimes stopping to look at something in his hand.

''Excuse-me, but are you Christine Daaé?''

She looked up to see the very man smiling at her. Christine frowned ; how in the world did he know her name ? This was just getting disturbing.

''Yes, why ?'' She asked wearily. ''Who are you ?''

''Ah !'' He exclaimed all too cheerfully, earning a you-pervert look from Meg and just a murderous one from Raoul. ''My name is James Cardwell. May I speak with you ?'' He added when it was apparent that neither Meg nor Raoul were about to leave.

''Yeah.'' Christine said ''Go on.'' There was no way in the world she was going to have a private conversation with some guy she never saw but who apparently knew her.

''In plain words I am the one who has your ticket.'' The piece of paper was waved before her. ''Your-'' He paused to think, ''Your doctor sends me.''

''Oh, yeah right !'' They all turned to see an angry Raoul. ''Christine, don't listen to that freak, you don't even know him. Come, we're going back.''

She had to admit he was right and even turned her back to the man when he suddenly exclaimed.

''No, Mrs. Daaé, wait !'' Ah. It was the first time someone called her Mrs. Daaé. ''Call him, call him and ask if I am lying.''

''No Christine, don't call him.'' Raoul groaned. ''You leave or I'll call the police.''

''Christine, Raoul's probably right…'' Meg cut in.

Everything was spinning around her. She just wished to vomit her heart out so everything would stop.

''Shut up !'' She murmured. ''I'll call him, wait a moment.''

Everyone has something close to a sixth sense, intuition perhaps. Once there had been this party at Ashley's house. For some reason Christine knew she wouldn't be able to attend even though she wanted it more than anything. It turned out to be right – Gustav burst into the house announcing they were going to the restaurant with Meg and her mother because it was the former's birthday. Never mind that it actually had been two days earlier – Gustav just forgot about it.

And today something was whispering in her ear that she would indeed leave Myrtle Beach.

''Why aren't you here !'' She cried out when he picked the phone. ''I don't understand, Monsieur. You say it's better for me to come back, you make me go back and you're not even here.''

''Christine-'' He tried to reassure her. Vain attempt.

''No !'' She shrieked. ''There's some blond weirdo claiming he was sent by you. He says that you send him. His name is James euh…Cardwell I think.''

At this point she was fuming with rage and had almost forgotten the physical pain.

''He isn't lying, Christine.'' Her jaw dropped open. ''I really did send him.''

''But-but,'' She stuttered, ''Why aren't you the one to come ?'' Then her previous thoughts about his mask came back. ''Is it because of your mask ? Is it ?''

As the forbidden word was uttered he had hanged up on her. She groaned in desperation and walked back. She had to leave, Christine knew it, Monsieur would be so angry if she disobeyed him. But at the same time she had the right to be infuriated too. There he was asking, no demanding, from her to board a plane and come back as soon as possible…with some guy she didn't even now. What if he was a murderer ? A serial rapist ?

''You weren't lying. Sorry.'' She acknowledged Cardwell's words. ''Let's go.''

''What ?'' Raoul cried out, his face red with anger. ''Christine, you can't be serious !''

She rolled her eyes. It was hard to take ; all those orders at once. ''I'm dead serious.'' She murmured, taking the ticket from James.

''Wait- Christine, no !''

''Meg !'' She moaned in exasperation.

With strengths she ignored that the ballerina possessed, Christine watched as Meg almost dragged Raoul away. Of course he was protesting, and even cursing – which was rare of him -, but still she managed to get away with him. Sighing, Christine twirled on her heels to stare at 'her chaperone'.

''Just let's go, Mr. Cardwell.'' She told him.

For the first time she hadn't been inspected as if she was some drug dealer. Usual questions were asked and she answered lazily. A headache had kicked in and she was struggling to remain amiable. Christine asked James if he had Aspirin and he answered that his boss – to that her eyes widened – said that she was to not take any medicine. Shit.

''So you're working for Monsieur ?'' She asked when there was nothing else to do and the silence was growing uncomfortable.

''For who – ah yes, I do work for him.'' So he didn't know him as 'Monsieur'. It occurred to Christine that he was probably referring to him by his given name.

The though filled her with excitement. ''What's his name ?'' Christine asked with trepidation, her voice small.

James shifted and immediately reached for an old newspaper. ''I don't think I'm allowed to tell you, Mrs. Daaé.''

''Come on.'' She pressed. ''I've known him for a year and I still call him 'Monsieur'. It's just irritating in the end.''

But he still refused to tell, claiming it was boarding time. The flight was ridiculously short, but still Christine got bored easily. The pain didn't go away completely but left its' place to an almost paralyzing numbness. She was unable to think, it hurt her brain – or so she thought – whenever she did and so Christine only stared at the seat in front of her.

She suspected that Monsieur would probably wait for her at the Airport – well, he was certain to act like a Taxi once she arrived. Sometimes she turned her head lazily to pay a look or two to the blond man who nervously played with the fabric of his trousers. Then she gasped, remembering what her father used to say her when she confronted him about Monsieur. _Tall and blond, and he_ _doesn't wear a mask._

''Mr. Cardwell,'' She whispered anxiously, ''Are you the one who visited my father ?''

''What ?'' His brows furrowed. ''I don't know what you're talking about Mrs. Daaé, please buckle your seatbelt.''

But just to be sure Christine decided to take a quick photo of him when the plane landed. He wasn't looking in her direction and so her fingers were deft and fast. The quality wasn't the best but his face was more or less clear – enough to recognize the represented person. She then hid the cell phone in her jacket pocket.

''Wait,'' Christine murmured when they were about to exit the airport, ''I-I…I need to go to the bathroom.''

She was surprised he didn't follow her there – until now he did everything for her. If he could have chewed the snacks the flight attendants offered he would have. Her left hand was naked and comfortable but the sensation was not meant to last. Once safe from James's inquisitive gaze, Christine searched her purse for the heavy ring and then slipped it on her finger. It burned like ice.

He was working for Monsieur, he would surely tell him if she decided to return the ring to it's position in front of him.

''There Mrs. Daaé,'' Her eyes followed his hands as he pointed to a black car waiting outside, ''_He_ is waiting.''

''Please, please tell me his name.'' Christine pleaded. ''You have to tell me, Mr. Cardwell !''

He opened the door for her and waited for her to get outside. ''I don't think that I am allowed.'' The same song was repeated.

''You don't understand !'' She almost cried out. ''I really have to know his name ! Come, it won't kill you. Please, please, please !''

''No, it won't kill me,'' He agreed, smiling sadly, ''But he sure will.''

There was a loud sound and they both turned to see that the car door had been opened and a tall figure came out. She gasped and immediately shut her mouth. He was wearing a long black coat – probably a light one but still – even though the weather was hot and a dark fedora was sitting on his head, hiding his features and the mask.

''Thank you James.'' He rasped. She caught a glimpse of the man; he bowed and almost ran away. ''Come Christine.''

She obeyed because there was really nothing else to do. She had no money to take a taxi and so he was her only option. When Christine came close enough, his hand grasped gently hers and it was gloved – as always – before pulling her inside. It happened quickly, she didn't even have the time to think. Once inside she understood why he opted for such an attire ; the temperature was to its' minimum, so much she couldn't help but shiver repetitively.

He noticed – of course he did – and shook off his coat before wrapping it around her shoulders.

''Thank you, Monsieur.'' She whispered.

''How are you feeling ?'' He asked.

His hands came up to cup her face tenderly and caress it. Oddly, Christine relaxed and even closed her eyes for a little while. His touch became more insistent as he brushed the hair away from her face and then moved down a little to graze her neck.

''Tired,'' She confessed, ''Very tired and numb. Everything hurts.''

''Oh, it'll be better.'' He assured her and his hands slid down to her waist. She gasped a little when he pulled her towards him. ''I'll make it better, do you believe me ?''

There was no strength in her to fight anymore and…she really did believe him. ''Yes, yes I do.'' Christine murmured weakly into his chest, her voice muffled by his vest.

''And you still wear my ring.'' He said softly, placing his head atop of hers, nuzzling her in a fond embrace. She felt his finger caress the golden bang.

It's not like she had the choice. Suddenly it all felt good in some strange way. He was such a big part of her life; you might hate someone close for a while but in the end it is always pleasant to welcome them again.

''Just sleep.'' He whispered in her ear, a hand coming up to play with her hair. ''Just sleep.''


	12. Chapter 12

Update update !I mean, I couldn't let Erik-Punjab-girl on her knees any longer, ;)

I'm very sorry, I really want to answer the reviews but I don't have much time. I have a dinner with my father. Much love to all of you.

Emmanuelle.

* * *

**Chapter 12**

First she felt softness. Something silky was tickling her half-bare legs for before leaving for the airport she opted for some shorts. Christine stretched, refusing to think for the moment being because everything felt so incredibly good. Her toes touched one another and she noticed through the fog she was in that her sandals were gone. Reality hit her then. _Hard_. Violently she jerked out of the bed with a strength Christine ignored she possessed. Everything around was unfamiliar, starting by the strange white room and finishing by the apparently expensive carpet that now offered a warm refuge to her feet.

The room wasn't particularly big but sure was beautiful. Now that she looked at the bed she realized the sheets and covers upon it were ridiculously luxurious. Everything about the place screamed affluent. But she refused to dwell longer on the question and frantically sought a door, any door, with her eyes. Soon enough a little golden knob came into view and squealing she rushed to it. Only when her skin made contact with the cold metal did she notice the numb pain in her arm. It wasn't sharp as if she had cut herself with a piece of paper, instead the sensation was callous and bothered her only a little.

However there was a fiery throbbing and a quick rush of pain once she attempted to pull the adhesive bandage that hid from view the damaged bit of skin. A minute or so later she succeeded in her task and stared with wide eyes at the slightly bright-red spot on her flesh. A single, minuscule, drop of dried blood was the only reminder that someone had used a syringe to inject some substance in her veins. It angered her for there was just one person who was susceptible to have accomplished such a deed. Cursing, Christine pushed the door open and burst into the hall.

He always refused to show her the house, preferring to meet her at the door and immediately guide her – his hands gently caressing her shoulders – to the living room. Still, Christine knew all too well where she was. There was this smell, a perfume if not an aroma, that was unique to the place. It was musky but not unpleasant and mixed with strong cologne. Staring around Christine wondered why ever Monsieur, a man obviously wealthy, did not own a larger apartment, even a house perhaps. Or maybe he did and she was just unaware of the fact ? They never spoke about him; she had always been the main subject of conversation.

Then she caught a glimpse of a familiar sofa and sighing in contentment hurried to it. There was no awful feeling of sickness and she felt surprisingly well. Christine suspected it had something to do with the shot she had been administered and at the thought her brows knitted. He was nowhere in sight and so she nearly screamed in annoyance, calling out his name; well, title.

''Monsieur !'' She groaned, her eyes set on the huge television that sat on the wall. The remote was impossible to find even as she looked around. When she got up and tried to turn it on manually nothing happened.

Once she asked if she could watch a show of hers while he was doing, well, something. He never bothered to explain what he did besides controlling her. He retorted rather sharply that the stupid thing – and the use of the word meant that he really was angry – would numb her mind as it already did to so many. Oh, and it would be so much better if she just picked a book instead, he had added a minute later, in fact he had a relatively good library here. 'Here' sounded strange.

''You'll want to plug it in.''

The mocking, yet soft at the moment, voice made her jump up and it suddenly became difficult to swallow for a big lump sat in her throat. Slowly, Christine whirled around. Her resolve to seem angry vanished immediately and not because of a mood swing, rather the very image he represented was the reason. He looked so nonchalant, leaning against the wall and doing nothing but observing her and yet there was something incredibly imposing about him. It wasn't even his mask but the general aura that emanated from him. Christine was sure that even his mood was palpable; if she just reached out a little it could be possible to touch and feel it.

''Yes.'' She agreed clumsily. ''It'll probably help.''

Perhaps it was just her wild imagination but she was sure that his eyes glowed behind the white porcelain. ''Ah, leave that _thing_ alone, Christine.'' He commented dryly and extended one hand for her to take.

She was reluctant to accept it and so opted for a compromise, simply coming to his side. An irritated sigh was heard but he did nothing, his hands coming to rest behind his back.

''Did you sleep well ?'' He asked softly, inclining his head to one side.

Christine blushed a little. What was that bed ? Somehow it simply didn't fit him. She didn't know what exactly _did_ fit him, but that pure white bed surely didn't. But…but what if after all it was his ? The though disturbed her deeply and she refused to meet his gaze.

''Alright.'' She mumbled. But then the previous anger returned full force and Christine snapped before she had the presence of mind to think about it twice. ''What's that ? What did you do to me? I mean what's that shot; I'm not stupid you know.'' She added as an afterthought. ''You can't just…well, you know !''

Usually he laughed whenever she tried to sound serious and frustrated, now however he remained deathly silent and her blood ran cold. She would have taken a step black if not his eyes that kept her in place.

''As a matter of fact I do not.'' Monsieur said all-too softly. ''Please enlighten me, my Christine.'' Ah, he was back to his usual self. The sweet, caring man she was speaking to over the phone at Myrtle Beach had vanished leaving its place to the controlling one. ''What did you just say ?''

But she was no fool and at that point Christine was quite plainly angry. Thrusting her arm forward, raising ironically an eyebrow, she said nothing, allowing him to examine the red stop.

''What was that ?'' She hissed through clenched teeth. ''You can't just drug me. What was it ? Medicine ? I told you I didn't want any. You know that I could go to the Police, right Monsieur ?'' The last statement had been said only to ease her frustration.

He had always been the controlling one; everything always obeyed him, even nature sometimes it seemed. It unnerved her deeply and for a rare time she actually gathered enough wits to dare and defy him.

What he said however simply knocked her off. Christine's eyes widened and her jaw dropped open, her mouth impotent.

''Didn't you miss me ?'' A step was taken and then another until his hands were resting on her shoulders. They then ran lightly down her bare arms, causing shivers to cover her skin, before brushing lightly across her back.

''Euh,'' She pushed his hands away, uncomfortable and took a step or two backwards, ''Yeah, sure.''

''Why don't you eat now ?'' The room grew colder. ''I'm sure you must be hungry.''

Anything just to ease the atmosphere. Nodding frantically she followed him. Until now she never saw the kitchen and it surprised her for it was pretty big. He settled her behind a wooden table and pushed a prepared bowl of some fruit salad. She eyed it suspiciously but finally, sighing, succumbed to her stomach's pleas. While she ate he once more disappeared. She heard a rustle of paper and then nothing more.

''I didn't know you were good at, well, preparing food.'' Christine noticed with irritation that today she was particularly clumsy with words.

He slowly sat in front of her and began tapping lightly on the wood, the sound creating little echoes. ''One must learn when he is living alone.'' He replied blankly. ''Why are you so surprised ? Isn't you father a good cook ?''

Christine shrugged. ''No, he particularly sucks at it. He can crush a person in court but is unable to even prepare tea.'' She rolled her eyes, laughing softly. ''It's always too bitter or sweet. Sometimes I think he is in love.''

He looked at her curiously. ''Why do you say such things ?''

''I have this Polish friend, Marina, and she once told me about this old belief, I guess we can call it that way. Well the thing is that every time someone uses too much salt it means that he or she is in love.''

He said nothing and Christine once more grew crimson and quickly returned to her salad. It was good, she couldn't deny it. While reaching for the glass of fresh water she noticed he was playing with the saltshaker. She observed as his mask rose and then fell down as he emptied a little of the substance in his hand and played with it. Shivering, Christine looked away but not before catching a last glimpse of how he dropped the little white waterfall of grains to the table.

When she was finished he lazily motioned for her to leave the bowl alone, he would take care of it later. The pile of salt still sat proudly on the wood. It frightened her for some reason and Christine refused to stare at it any longer.

''I'm feeling surprisingly good.'' She said at one point for the silence became unbearable. ''How did you do that ?''

''I promised that I would make it better, didn't I ?'' His voice slid down her body like a silky caress and Christine suddenly wished for a coat.

This was so awfully normal that it scared her. Usually he was the psychiatrist and she the patient and while their relationship was strange they never exchanged roles. Now however she couldn't name what he and she were.

''Yes.'' She whispered and under the table her hands shook a little. ''Yes you did.''

''Yes I did.'' Then Christine actually trembled. ''I made it better, will you deny it ?''

''No.'' Christine replied as softly. ''You did. But-''

He groaned, almost making her jump. ''And so cease your foolish questions. I believe you don't have a medical degree and I hate explaining things in plain, simple words. This conversation will lead to nothing and so I will not dwell on the subject a moment longer.''

That was clear. Christine shook her head dumbly and pivoted on her chair to look at the wall. The sight it represented was by far more comforting than the one he was.

''I have to go home.'' She stated.

Monsieur said nothing, he didn't even blink and when finally words fell from his lips she wasn't sure he had spoken at all for he remained dreadfully still.

''You don't want to stay ?'' There was a certain rawness, like an open wound, in his voice even though it was quite well concealed.

Christine shrugged. ''I want to go home; it's natural. I can't stay here Monsieur, it's just not right.''

''Why not ?'' He asked quickly. ''What's so wrong about it ? You know me, it's not as if I'm so stranger.'' He chuckled a little. ''Come, is it really better to stay home alone ?''

''Quite honestly; yes.'' She replied almost harshly and for a moment Christine feared she had angered him. ''No, I mean Dad is always at home, I want to be by myself sometimes.''

''Why ?''

That caught her off guard. ''Every teenager wishes to be alone for a while.'' Christine answered uncomfortably, shifting in her seat. ''It's just how things work, you never wanted it ?''

''I've been alone for the most part of my life.'' Somehow the revelation didn't affect or surprise her. ''When do you want to leave ?''

''Now.'' She snapped immediately.

The look he gave her was such she was sure she would die. Christine felt her stomach growl and for a brief moment she thought she would be sick. If looks could kill…How many people said it before her ? It became a current statement, a banal one, and yet there wasn't another one to express what she was feeling.

''Go get your things then.'' His tone was dead. ''They are in your room, I believe you can find it on your own.'' Saying so he rose from the table and move to leave her.

''What ?'' Christine gasped. ''What do you mean by 'your room' ? It's not mine.''

''Of course not, not literally.'' Monsieur shrugged elegantly. ''If I just called it 'the room' would you have understood ?''

To that she had nothing to answer and so just watched him depart. Finishing her glass of water, she exited the kitchen. Indeed after a while wandering she found her way. The apartment was ridiculously big and so she judged it was a penthouse. But if so, where was the great panoramic view ? Every window was hidden behind a curtain and it was sickening. Everything seemed so false and lifeless in the dim, electric light.

She hadn't noticed it before but her things were indeed at the bed's side. She reached for her backpack and began the scavenger hunt for her set of keys. Christine clearly remembered how she had thrown them inside, checking a moment if they were still inside and they were. Now however as she discarded every single little thing, the keys were nowhere to be found. Grumbling, she fumbled with her purse then. Her passport – which she had taken before leaving to Myrtle Beach because Raoul said it was important to have it – was there as was the plane ticket and some girl stuff.

Her hairbrush was followed by some papers – Meg had been playing tic-tac-toe with herself during the ride – and some other things. Everything was there, everything but her damn keys. She checked her pockets, even her shoes though it looked stupid. Christine even crawled on the carpet, running her hands along the soft material. Perhaps they were somewhere on the floor…Under the bed she discovered utter emptiness when in despair she looked even there.

There was a light knock on the door and she sighed, calling that he could come in. When she gazed up he was lazily leaning against the doorframe.

''Are you ready ?'' He asked in a dead, emotionless tone.

Christine shook her head. ''It's my keys…'' She whispered, ''I lost my keys, Monsieur. I can't believe I lost them, oh my, Dad is going to be so angry with me.''

''What about your bag ?'' Monsieur made a vague gesture to the things on the floor; a total mess. ''Or your purse ? Perhaps they're in your jacket pocket.''

''No,'' She murmured, tears gathering in her eyes because of frustration, ''No, they aren't. Oh shit, shit, shit…''

''Language.'' He scowled her softly, the word coming out as if he was an automaton, so frequently he said it.

''Sorry.'' Christine muttered, rolling her eyes. ''But it's just that I really can't find them and it's bothering me.''

''Don't you have another set of keys in case of an emergency ?'' He coaxed, coming close to her.

Slowly he lowered himself to her level until they were both crushed on the floor. Still even in that posture he managed to look imposing. Christine thought for a moment. It wasn't a subject she thought of daily and it took her a certain time to remember that there was indeed this replica of a rock on their front yard that hid a little emergency key to the front door.

''Yes !'' She exclaimed. ''Yes, you're right ! We do have one. Can you take me home ?''

He couldn't say no, she knew it and so used the opportunity. She smiled, hoping it would help to achieve the desired effect. Gingerly, his hands came up to caress her cheeks and she shivered a little. If he noticed it he refused to acknowledge the fact and perhaps blamed it on the cold. After all the air conditioner had been turned on to its full capacity.

''Of course, let me call my driver.''

When he left she began tucking her clothes in the backpack. They were everywhere, on the bed, on the floor; a t-shirt of hers had even found refuge on the doorknob. She waited for him in the living room while playing with her nails but still he didn't come. Out of boredom Christine decided to walk the halls. His voice was finally heard but it wasn't addressed to her. She arrived before a door that had been left carelessly ajar.

''Yes, exactly there.'' He hissed and she could only imagine how angry his eyes were. ''I don't know, just find it.''

Curiosity was eating her alive; if she could have lived without oxygen, Christine would have done so gladly if it meant less noise. She wished so bad to hear the end of the conversation.

''I imagine it looks like any other-'' And then he suddenly stopped. ''Please wait a minute, Thomas.''

He knew she was here. Her heart stopped and out of defense she knocked loudly on the wooden door. Attack was the best defense.

''Christine ?'' He inquired sharply. ''What's wrong, dear ?''

''Nothing.'' She mumbled, trying to look innocent. Exhaling painfully she pushed the door and came in. ''I was just wondering if you were coming.''

It was probably his bureau, she decided, looking around. Everything was simple in a way but screamed lavish in another. And there was a piano, Christine noticed, a big and black one with its lid open.

''Yes,'' The call was immediately ended as he hid the cell phone back in his pocket. ''Let's go, that fool is waiting for us.''

His hand rested on her back as he guided her out of the apartment. They didn't get out at the lobby; instead he pressed the 'garage' button in the elevator. The silence was tense and the way his fingers played on her skin, drawing soft patterns, made her uneasy. It was distracting.

''Why aren't you the one who is driving ?'' She asked, searching the familiar black car with her eyes. ''You never drive. If I had a car – and a driver's license – I would never leave it.''

Monsieur held the door open as she climbed in. ''Because I don't feel like it and I have more serious matters to attend to.'' Was the reply.

Christine thought he would pay her more attention than that because all he did was texting on his cell phone that once more found its way into his hands. She leaned over, trying to see with who and about what he conversed. At every instant the thing vibrated and he answered as quickly as he could.

''I didn't know you liked to text, Monsieur.'' She commented with a little grin. ''It's the first time I see you.''

Just when the screen came in view he gently pushed her away. ''Now, Christine. It's impolite, I'm having a private talk.''

Rolling her eyes she chose to direct her attention to the window. It was far more interesting than his silent form. It was the first time, she thought, that he ignored her. Usually he craved her company and touch; now however he didn't even make a move in her direction. For some reason it upset her. For once there wasn't traffic and so they arrived rather quickly at her house.

''Okay, bye Monsieur.'' She said, refusing to cast him another look. ''Thanks for the ride.''

''I'll wait until you find the key.'' His tone was neutral as he spoke. ''Just in case.''

Christine didn't bother to answer and raced to the front yard. The memory of the plastic rock was foggy in her mind but she was sure she could find it, after all it was pretty big. She found three of them and while the first two had indeed been real rocks the third one was the one she sought. Smiling, Christine flipped it over and her heart skipped a beat. No. It was impossible. It was some sick joke. Even that key was gone.

Forgetting about the neighbors she dropped to her knees and patted the grass. Still it wasn't there. In her despair she ran to the mailbox but it was empty except for the usual boring newspapers. The car's door was still open and so she heard him when he called for her.

''What is it Christine ?''

''It's…it's not here…'' She whispered in horror. ''I don't understand, it's just not…I remember that it was here but now it's not…''

''Christine.'' She watched as he got out of the car and beckoned her forward with one long finger. ''Christine, come here.''

And like a savior her cell phone decided to come alive. It vibrated in her pocket and with trembling hands she reached for it. Whoever the person was she was sure an insistent one.

''Ye-yes ?'' Christine murmured in the handset. The shock was great; she still couldn't think clearly. The key had been there the last time she checked, she could remember the way it glittered when the sun kissed the metal or how her father laughed at the replica. Oh God, where was it ?

''Christine !'' A familiar voice roared at the other end, followed by a high girlish giggle. ''How are you ?''

''Raoul !'' She cried out. ''Meg ! Oh my God guys, you won't believe what happened-''

But at that moment she nearly dropped the phone for the low curse that was heard made her loose the speech ability immediately. When she looked up, Christine's face almost collided with Monsieur's chest.


	13. Chapter 13

Thanks to everyone for bearing with my absence, but as I've already mentioned my computer died multiple times. I won't ramble and simply answer gravity's question before giving you the chapter : yup, the salt thing is real, as a matter of fact I did learn it from a Polish friend =)

AND OH MY GAWD – my wonderful beta is back ! A big round of applause.

* * *

**Chapter 13**

She pushed him away and made a step back, irritated and making no attempt at hiding it.

"You're fast," she muttered, turning her back to him. His hat was low, concealing his face. If anyone chanced by, they wouldn't suspect anything. It was just the two of them.

Something hung in the air. Anger? Tension, perhaps? The trembling began at her shoulders before making its way down her whole body. Something was terribly wrong. Christine could sense it. His mood was suffocating, and she envisioned a snake, in the briefest of moments, winding its long, firm body around its victim's neck and squeezing.

She tried to breathe then, was even vaguely aware that air did enter her burning lungs, but didn't feel the sensation that she would collapse at any instant disappear. She was light-headed and suddenly very tired. Christine felt the phone vibrating very softly in her hand. It wasn't someone's call, but rather Raoul's thundering growl at the other end. He demanded that she tell him what in God's name was happening and if she was alright or if something was wrong.

_I don't know_, she wanted to answer. _I don't know. I'm just so confused._

She knew that she'd ought to meet his eyes, but surely... Surely such an act would kill her. Christine hated herself for it but if he continued to be so imposing and just... _frightening_ in this dead silence, she would turn and run. To Mrs. Giry's house maybe. No doubt the kind woman would supply an interrogation fit Alcatraz, but Christine was not fool enough to believe that anything good would come of telling the truth. It wouldn't be a problem. She had become rather good at lying thanks to Monsieur. When no one believes the truth, one is forced to invent things in order to explain others.

She was aware then of Monsieur's gaze, could feel it burning into her back. Tentatively, she made another step in the house's direction.

"The connection is bad," she mumbled to appease Raoul. It worked. He sighed in relief and abandoned his useless questions. "Sorry what were you saying?"

Why was she trembling like this? She couldn't fathom it and it unnerved her to not know what was happening to her own body. But Monsieur was there - watching, listening, and most importantly, knowing.

Everything.

She thought of his intense loathing of Raoul, thought of how every time the boy's name was mentioned, his hands would curl into tight fists. During those moments, she often crawled away on the divan, like a child trying to escape.

He would always bring her back. Bring her close to him.

"...Anyway we're bored without you, and Meg is begging me to take us back." Her heart seemed to fall to her stomach and back up again. Christine felt sick and would have dropped to her knees on the grass, but Monsieur was there. If he doubted the soundness of her health, he wouldn't hesitate to take her back.

And she sure as hell didn't want that. There would be nothing to stop him from controlling her every move. Christine just knew it. Still, it felt as if she were split in two. There was the childish part of her that defiantly declared that she was a grown-up who could stay alone. Then there was the tired, worn part of her that recognized Monsieur and all that he represented, and just wanted a rest... It was so much more than one could imagine.

The news of Raoul coming back - because Meg didn't seem to be half as much of a threat in the good doctor's eyes - was both joyous and frightening. Monsieur would grow mad. And when Monsieur was mad, things got broken, whether they were items or people.

Only it occurred to her then that Meg's return was some sort of key to freedom. She would once again live with her and her mother and Monsieur could do nothing, absolutely nothing, until her father's reappearance. Christine would have grinned but she was still too shaken for it.

"That's great," She mumbled as quietly as she could. "But oh God... I feel like I ruined your vacation. I am so, so sorry guys."

"Don't even worry about it." Meg took control of the phone, much to Raoul's loudly expressed disappointment. "Besides, I'm dying here. Chris, my back is burned. Like literally. I look like a burned piece of cheese."

Christine barely paid attention. She was trying so desperately to understand what was wrong exactly, what displeased him to such an extent. But she couldn't. The tension was too much and her palms were already sweaty. Her cell phone started to slip. Christine gripped it harder - as her life depended on it. In a way it did.

"We'll probably be back in two days," Meg continued happily. "Meanwhile you can stay at our place." The idea was terribly appealing. "But sorry I interrupted you. What's the awful thing that happened ?"

"I lost my keys _Meg_," Christine whispered. "I looked everywhere. I mean, I know I remember taking them with me…And you know that rock I hide them under? Yeah, that one. Well it's empty. No keys!"

"Did you look on the grass ?"

She rolled her eyes. "Of course. I'm not stupid." There was a long, excruciating pause which suggested that perhaps she was.

"Hey listen, it's alright. I'm calling mom. She'll be happy to see you."

"I'll think about it." She said as softly as possible.

His emotions seemed to wrap around her body a little bit more as seconds passed, crushing her lungs, making airflow impossible and going as far as causing her mouth to forget the words that so longed to escape merely a moment ago. And still she couldn't understand what exactly was wrong and it made her all more helpless. When the issue's source is unknown, fighting it becomes quite a task.

"What do you mean 'you'll think about it'?" Meg shrieked a bit dramatically at the other end. "It's not like you have the choice or something. And- oh. Are you planning to stay with Mrs. Valerius?"

It had never occurred to Christine, and yet it was such a simple solution. The old woman was loved by Gustav (who wasn't what society would consider the perfect father), was responsible, and actually knew how to cook. Already, that was one advantage she had over Christine's father. Monsieur could do absolutely nothing about it should she choose to stay at her place. And Christine was nearly a hundred percent certain the kind lady wouldn't refuse. Her own son failed to give her any grandchildren yet, and she adored Christine.

"That's actually a very, very good idea." Monsieur, she thought happily, had no idea what she was talking about, and she would be the last to tell him. Should he discover it now he would probably try to dissuade her from calling Mrs. Valerius. Yes, _that _would work. "Look, don't call your mom now."

Everything became so much ... _lighter _then. No more tension or murderous looks. Gone were the terrible, silent threats. She relaxed and just then Christine realized how rigid her back had been. It actually hurt and she winced a little.

"Look, _Meg_," She emphasized the name and chanced a look at Monsieur. "I have to go."

"Do you want to say a quick bye to Raoul?" Pleasant giggling ensued. "He's bouncing around me, trying to get the phone."

Christine bit her lip. As much as she actually wanted to share some last words with Raoul, it wouldn't help her situation. Monsieur had just adopted that sweet, kind attitude that spoke vaguely of adoration, and his fingers were slowly running along her hair. She shivered a little, but he didn't stop. To break this contact would equal suicide.

"No, it's alright." She answered quickly. "My cell phone's dying anyway. I'll call you tonight. Meg."

"You don't sound sure," her friend reproached. "Oh. _Oh_ heck. Don't tell me that you're with your creep of a doctor."

"No I'm not." Christine nearly shouted. "Bye Meg."

His hat was low, concealing most of his face. Even if someone came to pass by they wouldn't have suspected anything. It was with bitter anticipation that she ended the call. Her fingers betrayed her emotions, shaking a little as she fought to gain control over herself and hide the cell phone in her pocket. His hand grasped her wrist gently, and with exquisite care, the other one came to retrieve the phone.

"What are you doing?" she gasped.

His head cocked to the side as he quickly hid her prized possession within the layer of his black clothing.

"It is '_dead'_ after all. Isn't it, Christine?"

She merely stared at his chest, unable to lift her face and look at him in the eyes. The phone was far from dead of course. In fact, it would have taken at least ten or more hours for it to become unresponsive, and she had lied to Meg to avoid another scandal _here_. The latter seemed inevitable should she babble some nonsense now.

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes it's dead."

A faint noise of the mobile's vibration, indicating a text message had been received, made the blood in her veins curdle at the horrific realization that her lie had become even more obvious. Yet he did nothing but wait in perfect, undisturbed silence for everything to become calm once more. Christine couldn't help but stare at the place where the phone probably was - an inner pocket of a jacket suit that hung dreadfully on his too-thin frame.

"And so," Monsieur continued casually, "it won't bother you, my Christine." There was absolutely no suggestion in his tone or note that could allow her to retort or throw some clever comment of hers. "It won't bother you if I carry it. View it as a favour, an act of courtesy perhaps."

"But I have my purse," she protested in a small voice.

He went on as if she'd never spoken.

"Since it's obvious that you cannot stay here - because of course, your keys seem to be lost - I suggest that we return." He didn't even need to specify where. "Is there something you need in particular? We can pass at the mall if you wish."

Hearing this made her eyes water. It wasn't because she was a deeply emotional being who cried at every turn, but because her eyelids had refused to cooperate a while ago, and now everything was_ burning_. Shaking her head to get rid of the bitter sensation, Christine tried to think. Surely he would let her use his phone. He wasn't a bad guy after all. He was just a bit severe.

Still, she daren't ask for it on the spot. Instead, she followed him back to the car. Or rather she allowed him to, with his hand resting on the small of her back, propel her back. She felt like a child as he reached to fasten her seatbelt. Then he ordered the driver (in that emotionless, dead tone he knew how to use so well) to go back. The windows were tinted, allowing no visibility from the outside. The street they were on right now was the one Meg lived on. In fact she could see her mother's house with pretty tulips and other flowers. Nothing grew in front of their yard. There was only boring green grass that turned yellow when she forgot to water it.

She wondered idly if maybe, just maybe, Mrs. Giry would see her if she came out now. She disregarded the tinted windows entirely.

"Can I call someone ?" Christine asked in her prettiest voice, trying so hard not to break eye contact.

Watching him for a response, she was reminded of a great cat in some odd way. A feline jumps and attacks when the intrepid animal in front dares to turn its eyes away, indirectly affirming its fear and weakness. For what seemed the longest time, he held her in place with nothing more than his golden eyes. It was strange, she thought, almost hysterically, that sometimes they even seemed yellow. Finally, his spidery hands reached forward to play with her hair. Monsieur seemed particularly fond of it. He curled it around his fingers, massaged the base of her neck. Despite herself Christine relaxed a little bit more as each moment passed. Still, he said nothing and there was no more bravado left with which to confront him.

"Why?"

The clipped question had been spoken so softly and lowly, like a gentle rumble, that it was hard for her to understand if he had indeed answered. Her mouth opened and closed, impotent all of sudden. When she parted her lips a second or third time one of his hands touched her face. She shivered and almost jerked back but his firm hand never left, and after a moment, Christine was pliant and trusting again.

_It doesn't feel that bad_, she caught herself thinking on some point.

"Well, I, well, I thought that…" It was so difficult to form a coherent phrase. "Since I can't stay home," she exhaled painfully. "I mean…Meg suggested that I could call Mrs. Valerius."

"Ah, your little alternative for a grandmother."

"Yeah. She's always happy to see me." Meg had what could be called doe-eyes. Big and bright. They always granted her impossible favours. She decided to try the tactic herself, but failed dramatically. She pretended that she had intended to sneeze, and she gave up on that idea. Simply pathetic, Meghan would say.

"She's an old woman." Either his answers never betrayed him, or Christine simply wasn't capable of figuring out whether he found her idea good or otherwise. "She might not be able to take care of..." He paused and a low chuckle passed through his mask. "A hormonal teenager."

"I'm not a hormonal teenager!" Christine rebelled. "And I do not need to be taken care off. I'm perfectly fine on my own."

"_Pretending he's beside me…_" Monsieur sang in an exquisitely light and endearing voice. "You do like _Les Misérables_, don't you Christine?"

"Yes I do," she admitted grudgingly.

"I never understood why the original actor who played Valjean is so loved. Javert's part is, in my opinion, a bit more demanding. But then again, we're talking about musical theatre. Tell me Christine, have you ever seen an opera? I won't go as far as saying that I have a personal favourite, but..." The mask rose a little and she could have sworn that a tiny bit of his lips had been revealed. But the piece of porcelain was back so quickly, that she wasn't sure it wasn't a strick of light. "...I do wonder what chef d'oeuvres Bizet would have written if he had not died so young."

A vague memory of Gustav and herself at the opera slowly resurfaced. If she remembered correctly, the opera had been Tristan and Isolda. She had sat dumbly and stared into space, thinking about trivial things, while Gustav tried desperately to wear an interested face. They had both been awfully pathetic in their attempts, but at least _she_ had liked some of the play while Gustav probably counted sheep in his mind.

"Yes I did. It was Tristan and Isolda." She began to feel a childish excitement raise as he silently praised her with his eyes. "Well I didn't like the whole thing, but it was alright. Sometimes it was a little hard on the ear- those singers are so loud! But it was still good."

"Excellent." For some reason, she adored pleasing him. Perhaps that was because whenever she did, he became so very kind. Her mind was already too fragile to handle any more brutal quarrels. "Very, very good. Tell me, what did you do on that little trip?"

Christine opened her mouth to speak but reality hit her, sudden and hard. The trip back to her senses was slow. He always did this when she tried to talk about something that seemed important to her. Monsieur always ended up turning the conversation all the way around so that in the end, he would be the winner. Her face slowly grew scarlet but this time from anger.

"Stop =!" She cried. "You always do this! Stop trying to change the subject! I was talking and you just decided you didn't like it so you changed it. Oh God! It's not even the first time and I always – do you hear me, always! – fall for it."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Christine." She pushed his hands away and turned her face to the window. "Christine, please explain yourself."

"Oh don't play that!" she shrieked. "Don't even bother! It just so damn irritating! I asked you if I can use your phone and you never answered. If the answer's no, then just drop the me the hell off right now, and I'll go find a freaking payphone."

"No, Christine." Monsieur waggled his painfully thin fingers in front of her. "You asked if you could call Mrs. Valerius. Now, dear, I am not your father. I cannot tell you what to do or what not to do. It isn't my right to impose limits on you."

Her head was ready to explode. "Yeah, whatever. Can I borrow your cell phone?"

Behind the mask his eyes seemed to glow, sending shivers down her spine.

"Unfortunately." Christine wasn't sure whether his sigh was real or just part of his excellent performance, "It is also, as you put it, _'dead'_."

Her lie had come back to haunt her yet again, and it chilled her bones that it was so. But she wasn't ready to give up just yet.

"Hmm, maybe you don't know how to use it." She suggested ironically. "Let me see it. Please. Perhaps I can figure out what's wrong."

The moment he spoke his voice descended an octave. "I assure you I am quite well acquainted with all of its workings."

It was as if her blood pressure increased. Christine suddenly felt very heavy, warm to an extent which wasn't agreeable, and couldn't bear to argue anymore. They no longer were on the pleasant little street on which Meg and her mother lived, and it felt as if she was on his territory now. Not that he couldn't win without that advantage, but now she felt defeated. At least back in the sun, that he so seemed to hate judging by the way he hid his face, she had the advantage.

"Look," She murmured quietly, "Just stop Monsieur, please. Stop the car and I'll go find a payphone."

He spoke quickly. "Thomas, pull the car over."

How the driver managed to hear him remained a mystery to Christine. He couldn't even see him, for God's sake. It didn't matter though; there was payphone mere meters away and she almost bounced up and down in the seat.

"I'll need some change." She mumbled to herself while searching for her wallet. "I think I have some left, but I'm not sure."

She had none. Irritated, she remembered that she had spent it all back in Myrtle Beach to call Monsieur. She hated herself for asking him to lend her some money but most of all she hated the stupid situation she was in. There were no doors that lead to anywhere but in his arms. And while it wasn't a particularly awful ending – she did know him after all – Christine's pride simply couldn't allow her to lose this game of theirs.

"Monsieur, do you have some change?"

He began playing with the fabric of her jacket. She didn't have the guts to push him away should he refuse to lend her money. He did this for a long time before staring out the window. Then he seemed to finally remember that there was another human being in the car beside him. It irritated her that he did this in an effort to gain time.

"I only have credit cards," he replied in milk and honey tones.

She should have seen it coming. "Are you kidding me!" Christine moaned, rolling her eyes in pure defeat.

"As a matter of fact I am not. Christine, you know me so well. I am not someone who enjoys putting on a farce." Monsieur hummed pleasantly.

She had told herself many times not to listen to him, to his voice. All that was needed was to understand the general meaning of his words; it was enough, but every time she failed to remember and ended up almost hypnotized by his slow gesture, controlled tone, and eyes that never seemed to blink.

"Do you have a phone at home?" She sounded unsure, but reason already was far behind.

Christine allowed her fingers to trace his covered wrists, play with the material of his suit before timidly resting on his thin shoulders. He didn't seem to matter as he gently caressed her face and leaned a little closer until hot breath, coming from under his mask, was crushing against her ear. She closed her eyes and forgot why she was fighting with him in the beginning.

Everything felt right.

And when he pulled her into a light embrace, she just shivered and let her chin fall on his shoulder. She remembered that he liked it when she was like this. He whispered something into her hair but his voice was little, nothing more than a light breeze, so Christine only listened to its intonation. It felt nice and she didn't mind not being able to understand his words.

"Did you miss me?" It was unexpected but also enjoyable, delightful even. His breathing wafted against her skin and as she trembled, he held her tighter.

"Yes." She sighed happily, dreamily. "Yes I did."

* * *

Awkwardness never followed afterwards. Christine just accustomed to those moments where she forgot everything or almost and simply gave in. There was an air of sick satisfaction around him, and it made her grit her teeth. He couldn't be content and not show it. He had to demonstrate it publicly. At the same time, she hated herself for abandoning reason without fighting a little bit more.

"So, do you have a phone?" She watched as he ordered the driver to do something. What it was exactly, she didn't bother to understand. His voice was harsh as he spoke and she realized that never before had he use this metallic tone with her. Even when he was angry he still sounded…better for lack of word. It was as if she witnessed his hidden side.

"Let's find out, shall we?" He suggested mockingly, extending his hand to her which she ignored.

"Please!" Christine growled in desperation. "You don't even know if you have a telephone in your own apartment?"

When he spoke again, his tone left no place to argument. "I bought the place as it is today, Christine. I never changed a thing. It's merely an apartment, an office if you prefer."

"Yes, because everyone has penthouse offices in the middle of the city. How stupid of me for not knowing. How ignorant."

"_Christine_." The warning was obvious and she daren't to continue.

Countless times she tried to figure out where her cell phone was – in vain. In the end, she simply fantasized about when Meg and Raoul would come back. Monsieur wouldn't do anything if they were there. He wasn't the type to show his temper in public. Yet there was a problem. Until now everything that happened seemed to be in his favour. Was she really so out of luck this time ? It was annoyed her deeply.

"Where's the phone ?" She squeaked again when he opened the door and waited patiently for her to enter, as if scared that she would change her mind and run away.

"Let me get a glass of water."

Rolling her eyes she trotted behind him as he made his way to the kitchen. However when he noticed it, Monsieur whirled on his heels and stopped her rather abruptly.

"I am perfectly capable of serving myself," he commented dryly.

She rubbed her tired eyes with her sleeve. "Hmm, I know. I just don't feel like staying alone."

"Then I'm afraid I'll have to upset you. Please wait a minute Christine." And on that he actually locked the kitchen door.

Well, that was weird. Who had locks on kitchen doors? This was just crazy. She numbly stared at the wall before slowly walking to the living room. There was no phone just as she supposed and she hadn't enough courage to go and explore other rooms. Monsieur wouldn't be happy. It was hot and took off her jacket and the moment she did Christine remembered that he had done the same thing. The kitchen door was still locked and she rushed like mad while she had time to the very place he had left it.

It surprised her how much pockets there was. Some she felt but was unable to actually get her fingers inside; the outfit was clever. The distinctive sound of footsteps was not heard and she continued her search which was fruitless. Seconds later her hand grasped the cell phone through the expensive material, and holding back a cry of triumph, Christine carefully transferred it into her own pocket before running and replacing the jacket on the coat rack. She ran back to the living as soon as she heard the door crack open and bounced on the divan as if nothing happened.

He came in slowly before stopping and leaning against the doorway.

"Are you alright ?" He asked after a tensed moment.

"Yes." Christine replied wearily, unable to see where this was heading.

"Do you want to see a magic trick ?" Behind the mask his eyes were glowing with malice.

It was one of _those_ moments when he spoke of nothing in particular and simply jumped from one subject to another, never listening and refusing to let her voice her opinion. He beckoned her forward and biting her lip Christine carefully made her way toward him.

"What's the trick ?" She inquired, raising an eyebrow. "A card trick?"

"Not really." He breathed. "You know, Christine, most thieves have very able hands. They can steal your watch and you won't even notice it. You simply have to know how to move quickly, graciously, and make as little contact as possible. Here, let me show you."

He motioned for her to be still and she obeyed, watching him the whole time as he took a few steps towards her. His chest barely brushed her shoulder and when she realized that apparently the little show had come to an end, Christine twirled around.

"So what's-" She didn't finish her sentence.

"You won't mind, won't you Christine ?" He said sweetly. Her cell phone passed from one hand to another as he lazily played with it. "It is _'dead'_, hmm? I believe my charger is compatible with your model. When did you say your father is coming back?"

There was a lump in the back of her throat, making even airflow impossible. She just hoped that the phone would indeed die before – if – he decided to check the history.

"In four days." She babbled.

"Four days isn't that long." Maybe it was her delusional mind's trick, but Christine was almost certain that he winked at her before leaving her in the middle of the living room.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

She tried to contact Gustav, she really did, and not because being with Monsieur bothered her so but rather because being on a leash, constantly tugged back if she went too far, wasn't a pleasing experience. Christine followed him around the apartment first demanding that he find a phone, then pleading and finishing the whole ordeal by almost crying, affirming that it was her right. She had never before considered herself a deeply emotional being but the fact that he ignored her and laughed at every request did it and in the end Christine was seriously pondering the thought of locking herself away in the kitchen. He did have a lock on that door after all.

_What are you talking about, dear_ ? _I told you they all are _dead_. Please don't start a childish tantrum._ _Stop acting like a petulant child._ And simply _Christine_, said on a low and final note had all been things he softly uttered to her that day. She couldn't bear listening to his reproaching tone any longer. He was in his study doing, well, something. She had tried to discover what exactly, or what his job was for that matter because other than her he didn't seem to have many patients or if he did then they were invisible and she indeed was mad. Truth been told she already felt slightly insane. Perhaps Raoul was right and the idea of rebelling was worth contemplating.

"Boredom is an evil thing, isn't it ?"

Christine didn't bother turning around to look at him in the face. Since he wasn't doing anything to be an amiable host there was no use in playing the role of the kind guest.

"Yes so just turn on the TV." Bitting her lip she added a quick, muffled _'please' _more out of fear than real respect for she had none left for him at that moment.

"Why so grim, Christine ?" He murmured gently.

She shook her shoulders in an exaggerated gesture. "Oh I don't know. Really, I wonder what could be wrong. I'm just being confiscated my phone for no reason by a person who's obviously not my father and the list goes on and on." In protest Christine slid farther on the couch. "It feels like a prison here."

He chuckled. The bastard was actually laughing. Christine's hand was now itching so much she wanted to hit him.

"What ?" She snapped at one point. "What the Hell is wrong with you ? Why are you laughing ?"

The silence then became a material thing. If she didn't know better, Christine would have said it was suffocating.

"Change your tone." He ordered. ''Don't talk to me like that.''

That sent her flying into a rage. "Or what ?" She cried. "You'll lock me up in _the_ room ? You'll call my father ? Then please do ! That's what I've been trying to do for the past hours !"

"Calm down." Monsieur requested quickly.

Looking down she noticed that his hands, previously vacant and wandering around his jacket's material, were now fondled behind his back. It had happened once or twice before when he had been angry. The sleeve of his left arm had ridden up a little, offering the view of his skin. Already pale, it was now white under the pressure as his fingers dug into it, a curious bracelet around his wrist. Christine swallowed quickly and turned away.

"I want my cell phone." She pressed on. "It's not yours and I don't freaking care," Christine added when it seemed that his mask moved a little as though his jaw opened to speak, "If it's _dead_. I want my phone back."

"Maybe if you stop this act then you'll have it."

There had been a lamp on the glass table. It had been there for as long as she could remember. It wasn't a particularly pretty lamp but it served its purpose rather well. Now it was a crashed mess on the floor. It was out of instinct and deep irritation that she had reached for it before sending it flying across the room. Either her coordination was really bad or her hands were shaking uncontrollably, but it missed him radically. Christine could only look as so very slowly he turned his head to one side to admire the pile of glass upon the floor and then her face which had become a blank page.

He coughed as if nothing happened. "Go get the broom."

Her jaw began to tremble. She opened and closed her mouth, her tongue darting forward one or two times, attempting to spit some harsh remark but nothing came out.

"What ?" She finally mouthed.

Monsieur cleared his throat once more but when he spoke his tone adopted that threatening edge she feared so.

"I said, go get the broom."

Christine gritted her teeth. "No."

The mask rose then fell back down. "I beg your pardon ?"

At this point she was shivering but still refused to give up. He had absolutely no rights to do what he was doing at the moment. And she didn't have to stay if she didn't want to. It was her right after all to leave; he was no one, not a relative, not a parent. With that thought in mind Christine got up and smoothed her clothing. He followed her with his eyes as she made her way through the living room, past him, before heading to the door.

"What are you doing, Christine ?" He inquired though it was obvious that he knew already.

She didn't answer; instead her hand curled around the doorknob at began twisting it madly. It remained in place, ignoring her actions. She seized the first lock then the second, played with them, turned them in every possible direction but the door still remained closed.

"Open it." She rasped. "Open it, I want to leave."

Christine jumped a little as he spoke. He was by her side, observing her hand that was still around the handle.

"And where will you go ?" He asked ever so softly. Apparently the broom incident was now forgotten. "Your father wouldn't want you to stay all by yourself while he's gone."

"You don't know that !" Christine suddenly yelled. "You don't know my father and you don't know me ! Stop thinking that you do. Stop thinking you can control whatever I am doing or chose my friends or simply lock me in this fucking apartment all day long !" Her chest was heaving with every breath she took; already her vision was blurry from emotion. "I'm getting the fuck out of here." She muttered. "And you can keep the cell phone; I'll call the company so they'll shut it down."

She waited for him to grab her, pull her away from the door and scream as he did whenever he was enervated to an extent. Perhaps go into his study and come back with a bottle of pills and force one or two of them down her throat. However he remained passive, totally apathetic to her jerky energy as she kicked the door, cried at him and cursed. After five minutes she took a break and stared into space, after ten she began to whimper furiously.

"Open it !" She shrilled. Her throat was dry. "I said open the door !"

"Would you like to call your father ?" He offered lazily instead.

Christine stilled. Her fists abandoned the idea of beating the door and slowly fell down to her sides. She examined him, his face or whatever she could see of it. She never could tell if he was serious or not for even his humour was a dark one. The rare times he had told her a so-called joke, Christine had shivered and turned away in order to avoid another one. Was it just a tactic to calm her down or pure and simple blackmail ?

"Let me get a phone." Monsieur said and walked away as if nothing had occurred.

She glanced at the door again. It wouldn't disappear if she was to go away for a moment, besides she seriously needed to think. It was hard to admit but Christine knew that Gustav was whole-heartedly on Monsieur's side no matter what he did or said. Oh, and he was good with words. He always spoke with elegance and made her look like a spoiled brat who constantly shrieked about everything. She refused to go back to the living room and opted for the kitchen instead. It had a lock and was closer to the door. There were fruits on the table. Christine reached for an orange but there was something wrong with it. The surface was unnatural, shiny and when she brought it closer she figured out it was plastic. She never had seen this basket of fake fruits before. He must have put them here for her.

She heard him rather than saw as he silently sat across the table. In his hands was the black cell phone she had seen him use before.

"I thought it was _dead_." Christine murmured, unable to keep the sarcasm down her throat.

He didn't even blink. "So did I. But it came back to the land of the living." Monsieur explained rather calmly.

She watched him as he dialled the number and brought the handset to his ear.

"Hey !" She exclaimed. "I'm the one who is supposed to call my father !"

Christine reached over the table to try and rip the cell phone from his hands but he got up as soon as she was close enough. He was tall and so there was no use in trying any longer. However she rushed to his side to hear the conversation. But when he actually did speak he jaw dropped down and she could do nothing but stare. His voice was different from the one she knew. It was a little higher, more cheerful and sounded younger.

"Mr. Daaé," He spoke clearly in a New Yorker accent, "It is Christine's psychiatrist calling." He then proceeded to laugh in that fake voice of his. "Very good, thank you. No, there is nothing wrong with her, however we are facing a little problem here. Nothing important I assure you. Christine came back from her vacation earlier than planned and since she has nowhere to stay – yes, the poor girl lost her keys. Well, as I was saying I've suggested that she stays with me for those four days you are absent."

At this point she couldn't tolerate it any longer. Christine waved her hands in front of him, pulled him by the sleeve of his jacket but he ignored her like an annoying fly. Even pushed her gently away when she made a bigger nuisance of herself.

"Dad !" She cried, hoping he would hear her.

"Yes, have a good day; I'm sorry for bothering you." Monsieur finished and finally, in a lazy, slow motion handed her the phone.

Christine grasped it with a shaking hand and pressed it against her ear with to much force. "Dad !" She exclaimed again. "Dad can you hear me ?"

At the other end her father laughed and she relaxed. "Of course I do. How are you sweetheart ?"

"I'm not staying here, dad." She warned him quickly. "I'll go to Mrs. Giry's house because that's where I am supposed to be staying."

"Christine," He sighed, "As much as Mrs. Giry loves you, you are not her daughter. It's alright for you to be there with Meg – it's like a prolonged sleepover then – but by yourself…Christine, honey, that's not polite."

She lost the gift of speech for a moment. He had known Mrs. Giry for years, they were close friends. Who else if not she ? Monsieur ? That didn't make any sense !

"Fine, then I'll go to Mama's." She suggested. "She'll be happy to see me, she always is."

There was a short, pregnant pause as he was searching his words. "Christine," He began again in that desperate tone she knew so well.

"No !" Christine rebelled. "I'm not staying here ! I don't want to stay here !"

A beeping noise was suddenly heard. Christine drew the phone back a little to look at the screen. Nothing showed that the battery was low or that there was a second line so she questioned her father what was going on.

"Yeah," He muttered tiredly, "I really have to take this call, sweetie."

"Okay. I'll wait." She was decided not to let him go until he gave her his permission to go away.

It wasn't that she particularly cared about his word, but it held a certain power over Monsieur. And since he had to be going he wouldn't have the time to listen to his objections…Yes, that was a good idea.

"No, Christine you don't understand. I have to go."

"Dad you can't go !" She cried. "Meg is coming back tomorrow or even tonight, I won't annoy Mrs. Giry !"

He was talking to someone else; she understood when he didn't reply after a minute as if he had forgotten that his own daughter was waiting.

"Dad !" She shrieked again. "I was talking !"

"I'll call you later, honey." He exhaled. His breathing was heavy as if he had just arrived at the end of a marathon. Christine frowned.

"How are you feeling ?" She asked softly. "Are you still taking those damned pills ?"

Gustav had never been the epitome of patience and care. Especially when it came to himself. He tossed all the matters aside, even his health and that was what she loathed the most.

"Christine I'm fine." He shrugged her worryness away. "I'll be going, have a great day."

"You don't even know his number, it's blocked !" Christine complained but it was too late, it was the dialling tones that heard her angry protestations.

The silence was suffocating as she set the phone back on the table. Monsieur waited a moment before taking and hiding it in one of the many pockets of his jacket. She scoffed internally at the sight, almost hysterically and allowed her eyes to fall down, unable to face him. On their own accord her hands flew to her temples and began rubbing them insistently. A fluttering laugh escaped her lips.

"What is it ?" He questioned gently.

"You always win." Christine replied in a neutral tone. "I am tired." She confessed shakily after another moment.

She felt rather than saw him move for her eyes had closed. His hands touched her hair and she shivered, surprised to discover he was now behind her. It was knotted but he still managed to braid it as she relaxed and calmed down little by little.

"Come, I'll turn on the television," He purred and she nodded. Like a child or a marionette she could not decided. Suddenly the two words seemed to merge into one.

Christine didn't object when he helped her out or even when after seating her on the divan he brought a blanket and tucked it around her. She looked around and noticed the mess was gone; he must have cleaned it while fetching the cell phone. He came back with the remote control and offered it to her.

"There." He murmured. "Are you hungry ? Would you like something ?"

She shook her shoulders. "Yes."

Very carefully he took her face in his hands once more. They were cold even through the gloves and Christine couldn't help but shiver. And then he kissed he forehead, the porcelain lips making a brief contact with her skin before drawing away.


	15. Chapter 15

May my wonderful beta excuse me for posting this without her approval. Only it's been so long that I decided not to make you wait any longer =)…

Actually I have a very specific reason for posting now. I don't know about you, but I am very unhappy with the Love Never Dies musical. I am part of the LSD campaign. As some of you might know, recently ALW proved to be a highly professional man by insulting two of LSD supporters, calling them 'a mental couple from Toronto'. Furthermore, RUG (Really Useful Group) decided that it's fit to well, just tell this couple (when they contacted RUG, asking what was happening) to piss off.

Please visit this link : HTTP : / / love should die (DOT) com / LSD / Exposing_RUG (DOT) HTML ALL THIS WITHOUT THE SPACES !

It contains the full story PLUS the letter from Andre Ptaszynski.

Now I don't want to start a LSD vs LND war. It is the **plot** I disagree with and the **characters personnalities assasinations**. The performers are talented, the music is all right. As a stand alone piece with other names (No Meg, Raoul, Christine, Phantom and Goose-tave) it might even be all right. So I don't want you people yelling at me XD

* * *

**Chapter 15**

All seemed normal but it was just a façade. She walked around the rooms like a waif or some orphan. While the exterior of what he was offering was pretty, there always was the other side of the medal and that one she was not allowed to see. He answered each question yet remained vague, speaking absentmindedly, offering ciphers to ease her curiosity. It was maddening as was his common sense. There were different logics, she realized, and theirs were two extremes, simply opposed one to the other. His presence had become a weight she wasn't certain she could bear at times, and when her shoulders did let go under the heavy burden, he was there to offer a hand; one she was reluctant to accept but did so anyway for there was no one else.

It became a habit to let him brush her hair.

"You are very quiet." He remarked softly.

Her head lolled against the hardness of his shoulder. "I don't have much to say." Christine confessed tiredly. The comb tugged painfully at a tangle, making her wince.

He caught her by the shoulder and swiftly forced her back down.

"Four days ?" She inquired.

"Not yet." He answered in a low tone.

That baritone rumble that he sometimes adopted usually made her eyes close in fatigue.

"No, it's been four days. I'm sure of it."

''I assure you it is not the case, my Christine.'' Monsieur breathed into her hair.

Her body felt like cotton and her mind was in turmoil yet both were in tune. It felt good not to care, the pleasure of passing her train of thoughts to someone else was so, Christine refused to allow reason to come back. For now at least. A guilty pleasure it was, yet she wasn't sure whether she felt ready to renounce it. He was there, not a ghost or fragment of her imagination and as his fingers played along her collarbone she shivered. The contact was real; it was physical and resonated through every fibre of her body. After being told for so long that her words were false, she had caught herself thinking from time to time that perhaps this whole ordeal was the result of her ill mind. But _this_; this could not be a reverie.

She didn't stir further as he slowly kissed the top of her head and then proceeded to massage her upper arms.

"I'm cold." She murmured.

He pulled a blanket over her, securing her gingerly in it until she was tucked away from the chilly air up to the chin. But his body was as equally cool and she still felt it against her own skin.

"Do you live here ?"

She hadn't meant to ask it, not really for he never had been one to answer questions regarding personal matters. Everything around her seemed so professional, too clean to be a house, lavish enough to be an office.

"Sometimes." His breath brushed her temple. "However I am not fond of confined spaces, I much rather enjoy the peace of a personal cottage."

"Oh." Christine murmured. "Do you have one ?"

"I do." His hands became more insistent on her neck. "Lie back down." They drifted to her face, tracing slowly and tenderly the cheekbones and closed eyelids.

But then the peace was broken and she gave a jolt in his arms.

"What is it ?" He questioned sharply.

She looked down at his hands. They were twitching as if unsure whether to curl into fists or fidget with the soft fabric of the blanket. Christine shook her head, coming back to herself and arranging the heavy sweater around her frame.

"It's the phone." She muttered. "I heard the phone."

"The phone didn't ring, Christine." He said after a painful moment filled with nothing but silence and her raged breathing.

"Yes it did." Her protest was shaky and unsure.

Quickly she closed her eyes and steeled her nerves against the look he was giving her. A light dizziness had kicked in and she swayed on her feet, trying to grip something, anything, for support but finding nothing else but his tall frame. He had gotten up quickly and with equal rapidity his arms wrapped themselves around her waist.

"Come, I'll give you your medicine." Monsieur purred into her ear.

He smoothed her hair over and over again until her mind felt numb; his fingers ran long her scalp gently, they massaged her neck and whispered like air against her cheeks. She nodded in harmony with his actions in the end and he exhaled; a content, final sigh.

"But the phone, it was ringing." She nonetheless protested weakly as he seated her in the chair and began rolling up her left sleeve.

"I will get it for you Christine, dear. Just not now. Be a good girl and stay still."

Deftly he ensued to peel away the bandage that had been adorning her upper arm for some days now. It had become a decoration of some sort and she had grown accustomed to it as might one to a bracelet. He quietly observed the bruise, once everything was off; she looked down too. It now was purple, simply purple. Perhaps that meant that it was starting to fade. It had started as yellowish before switching to blue.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. Lips trembling, he leaned down to place a lingering, cool kiss on the sore skin. "I'm sorry." He repeated again.

She didn't judge fit to answer. The sight of a syringe no longer was as fearsome as it used to be. It had taken a place on the same shelf as spoons and forks, becoming an object of daily use that one was to accept and not push away. The strong smell of rubbing alcohol tickled her nose in an unpleasant way but she pushed all physical emotions to the background and stared at his hands as he pried open a little box containing her medicine. There were no soothing effects to it and she never felt well, as one might consider, after its administration. For a small while she was almost euphoric, happy to an extent, giggling and cuddling with him, talking without a break. But then came exhaustion and a familiar longing for something that she was unable to name.

"I am reducing the dosage gradually." He informed her. The syringe was thrown in the garbage. She nodded numbly. "We don't want your body to get used to it."

She acquiesced once more.

"Would you like to lie down ?" A hard tug on the new bandage made her wince. "Are you tired ?"

"No. You said you would get my phone." Christine reminded him, her voice stoic. "I want it. Please."

He retrieved it from his jacket's pocket and her eyes widened. When she intended to protest, to demand what he was doing with it, he silenced her with a fast explanation. Everything had been so quick that it cut her mid-word, mid-breath, and she said nothing, much to his contentment. It radiated from him, she wished to steal that aura of perfect happiness and wrap it around her own self.

Going though the missed alerts she discovered that someone had indeed called; Raoul. She sighed and composed his number. An agreement had been passed between the two of them following her breakdown. She had gained the right to call whoever she wished and he was to remain out of the conversation and didn't possess a word in the matter. It wasn't a deal that made him joyful, but he seemed to be bearing it with gritted teeth. Her mind wandering, she shivered a little as she felt his fingers beginning to draw lazy, soft patterns along the back of her hand.

"Raoul." Christine whispered. "He's probably worried."

Monsieur paused in his tracks and for a moment she feared he might snatch her cell phone away from her and crash it against the wall. But he did no such thing and after a moment she felt the tension leave his hand. Christine took it as a tacit approval and continued awaiting Raoul's voice. He didn't take the call and she was redirected to the voicemail.

"Call me back Raoul." She instructed him, a small smile tugging at her lips. "It's Christine."

"Your friend isn't coming back to whisk you away on a white horse."

Her grip on the phone tightened.

"What are you talking about ?" Christine questioned. "He's simply not answering."

"No." Monsieur agreed. "He's not answering."

It was one of _those_ conversations, Christine realized. They had them often and none of them did any good. If they didn't end up with her getting mad, then it was he who forgot about control. She chose to put an end to it and not answer.

His hand continued caressing hers, the contact soft but turning insistent as each minute slowly chimed by. His fingers pried her fist open and seized the phone before she gained the presence of mind to protest. As soon as its owners were switched, a low vibration wracked through its plastic body. Christine stilled and watched him, awaiting his reaction. None followed and when sure that he wouldn't hide it, she reached forward so very hesitantly and snatched it from him, feeling foolishly victorious.

But it wasn't Raoul as she had expected.

"Dad !" She cried, her voice suddenly unusually high and shrill. Monsieur went dead by her side. "Daddy, how are you ?"

No soft greeting or endearing pet names were heard; as Gustav spoke his words hit her most painfully. They were cold and emotionless; it was as if he was trying extremely hard to keep all sentiments at bay in order to avoid a storm. Her own hands began to tremble. He was back, that was the only thing she understood, the others refused to penetrate her mind.

"Are you at your psychiatrist's, Christine ?" He demanded harshly.

The ability to speak lost for a moment; she gaped, gasped for air, her mouth impotent.

"Yes." The faint, weak quiver finally escaped. "Dad, what's wrong ?"

"I'm coming to get you." The final note played, the orchestra silenced, Gustav played the part of the departing, dramatic tenor with agility and grace. "Ask him to the phone."

She was frantic. The phone continually slid down, trapped as it was in the embrace of her sweaty palms. Christine couldn't fathom what had gone wrong. Was he unwell ? If so then why such harshness ? He seemed mad, simply angry and in no way attempted to conceal the fact. Her calmed breathing turned to raged pants and before she knew, the phone was taken away from her.

Monsieur's voice, the _other_ voice that he used whenever speaking to her father, remained undisturbed but the metallic edge to it was not lost to her ears. His fingers had curled around his opposed wrist and the pale skin turned bloodless under the pressure.

''Mr. Daaé ?'' He asked. ''She's been very good, don't you worry.'' His eyes fell on her after mentioning the fact in question and she blushed. The flushing crept to her neck and uneasiness made her want to burry her face in her hands. The childish tantrum still haunted her, a bad memory that made her feel utterly daft. The ordeal might have sounded droll, but each time she was reminded of it, Monsieur made sure to rub more salt into the wound so she wouldn't try again.

The ending of the call broke the myriad of thoughts she was lost in, and as he slowly turned around to face her, she felt the fog around her head beginning to dissipate. It wasn't pleasant.

"What did he say ?" Her voice faltered and broke, just as did her intent to remain strong and keep the upper hand.

His expression was a queer one that she, for once, could not understand. Oh, he was a book that was far from open, but when anger struck she usually could read it in his eyes. Now he was dreadfully quiet as he trapped her into the chair she was sitting in, both physically and mentally. Christine tried to get up but the harsh, tight grip he suddenly acquired on her waist made her cry out in surprise and light pain. Monsieur slammed her down into the chair and fell to his knees before her, blocking all paths to escape.

"What's wrong ?" Christine screamed, pushing at his chest. "Just tell me what I did ! Speak, say something, don't remain mute !"

"Christine, my dear, my girl, remember the painkillers I gave you when you were to leave with your friends to Myrtle Beach ?" He asked very plainly. His fingers had become handcuffs around her sore wrists. There would be bruises; she realized bitterly, they always appeared after he confronted her.

"Yes." She shook her head furiously. "I took a pill every day just like you instructed, I did just as you said." The desperation to keep him calm and composed, consumed her and she was only vaguely aware of the feverish feeling. "Why are you angry ? I called you and I took the Aspirins, I did everything you told me to do !"

"Yes." He admitted very slowly. "Yes you did, my Christine."

Her twitching leg connected with his shinbone, he hissed and seemed about to pull away but decided against such an idea at the last minute. He leaned in very closely, so very closely she could both feel and smell his breathing escaping from under the mask. I could rip the mask away, a clear thought amongst so many others struck her, I could do it now and finally see his face. He was speaking, screaming, shouting and yet her mind registered nothing. Her hands itched and fuelled by curiosity and simple need, she attempted to grasp the forbidden fruit.

Will I be banned from Eden, cursed for ever, she wondered. Eve had been. But Monsieur was not God, not really, even if sometimes it seemed that he controlled her, everyone else and the nature itself with the blink of an eye.

Then there was a sudden, fiery pain in her wrists as if they had been broken in a breath.

"Keep your hands down !" He roared. "I have told you so many times, you deceitful chit, to keep your damnable little hands down."

She began to sob, apologies lost in the uncontrollable stuttering that somehow managed to pass through her lips. Christine tried to lift her hands again and embrace him for he always calmed down and became so very kind when she initiated gentle contact – it no longer was an interdiction – but was met with light agony as he shook her trembling frame. Her head connected with the back of the chair and it hurt, it hurt but not enough for her to acknowledge it because suddenly everything was so confusing.

"I'm sorry !" She cried out. "I'm sorry, I won't do it again ! Please don't be angry !"

"I especially told you not to see a doctor, stupid girl, couldn't you just listen ?" He spat back.

Christine looked at him through her fingers. He was no longer before her, instead he had moved to the other room end. It looked as if he was about to rip out his hair and then strangle her. She brought her knees to her chest and stared at his unmoving silhouette. There was no use in lying anymore.

"Your father received the blood test's results." He continued. She noticed he was shaking, probably from anger.

"I'm sorry." She muttered again. "But Raoul and Meg they were very persuasive…They were worried and Raoul met this very nice doctor."

"You have a mind of your own." He bellowed back.

"Then stop yelling at me !" Her sudden boldness surprised her so much, she found herself unable to speak for a moment. "I chose to go see the doctor and there's nothing criminal about it !"

He folded his arms across his chest and did nothing for a very long while. At first she thought herself able to look at him in the eyes and was determined not to drop her gaze, offer him the victory, but in the end did so. She felt like a child, like a petulant one that had been sent to his room after a fight over a toy at the store. For the last days he had brushed all her demands aside as if they held no importance; no matter that some of them were about her father, no matter, nothing seemed to matter. As the fight reached its crescendo, it always became clear that he was the one who would walk away victorious.

"Go get your bag." He instructed coldly. "Go get your bag and leave. Your father is here, I can see his car through the window."

When all her belongings were gathered, she hesitantly made her way to the front door and waited for him to unlock it. When however he did she did not run as she had planned to do upon her arrival. Hesitant and utterly timid she raised her hands and rested them flat on his chest. Immediately, he stiffened. She waited for him to take her in his arms, embrace her warmly as he always did, but he remained still, staring at her curiously, before gently placing his own gloved hand on the small of her back and pushing her out.

She felt lost. He had been so kind and gentle during those past days that she almost forgot that the harsher part of him existed. He was angry and still would be when she would see him next. Such situation didn't appeal to her.

Christine was trembling as she made her way out of the building. She couldn't fathom why in the world Gustav was so upset. Was it about the bill ? But he had always said that if she didn't feel well, money be damned, she was to rush to the nearest clinic. Surely he hadn't changed that much after his trip ? He was leaning against the car and smoking which in itself was quite a bad sign. She bitterly anticipated the talk that would follow. A forced smile on the lips, she quietly approached her father.

"Dad." Christine grinned and awaited him embrace that never came.

"Get in the car." He rasped.

Confrontation was not an intelligent way out of the situation, but she couldn't bring herself to think of another one.

"What's wrong ?" She asked. "Why are you angry ?"

Giving a low growl he seized her by the arm and she cried out in pain for it was the very spot where the syringe had plunged into the skin half an hour ago. He shoved her into the car and almost ran to his seat.

"What's wrong ?" Christine yelled at him, all intention to stay calm lost. "What the Hell is wrong with you, dad ?"

"What the Hell is wrong with me, Christine ?" Gustav shot back. "What the Hell is wrong with you ?"

She shook her head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Dr. Jackson called me today." He muttered. She could almost hear his teeth gritting together. "She received the results of your blood test. You didn't call me to say that you were sick and now I discover that you required a blood test !"

She rolled her eyes. It was only that. His over-protectiveness was resurfacing.

"I'm well, dad." Christine sighed. "It's nothing."

The next moment, her forehead connected with the back of the passenger's seat. Gustav yelled something about securing her seatbelt and she obeyed grudgingly. His skin was pale, she noticed, and his clothes baggy. Had he lost weight ? She was about to inquire when he spoke again.

"Ah ! In my days doing drugs was most certainly not okay !" His grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Is it Meg ? It has to be ! I knew, I knew damn it, that she was no good influence. All those parties and boys. But you Christine, you !"

She felt dizzy. Colours were swimming before her eyes as she tried to understand what he was talking about. Drugs ? _Drugs ?_

"Dad, I'm not feeling well." She whispered.

He scoffed. "Of course you don't ! What else did you do, Christine ? Smoke ? Ah, but you are way too," there was a red light and he stopped the car, "_cool_ to smoke now. No, Christine is doing drugs instead !"

"Stop." Her pleas went unnoticed. She clutched at her hair. "I don't understand, dad, I really don't. I never-"

"Silence." He groaned. "Stop speaking. I don't want to hear you."


	16. Chapter 16

So it's been like what, twenty years lol ? I'm so sorry people, you can't even imagine how much I truly am. I've had the hugest case of writer's block. And then of course there was my new-found love for Tom Hiddleston.

Oh, and I re-watched POTC and so had to read millions of fanfics about it. Plus, I have the weirdest tastes. I totally ship Barbossabeth. Anyone else out there ? Thought so lol.

So because I am a horrible, horrible person who rejoices in the fact that Johnny Depp is single again, I give you this chapter as a celebration.

* * *

**Chapter 16**

''The thing, sir, is that most of the drug is gone from you daughter's body. At least, that's what the blood work is telling us.'' Dr. Jackson wiped her forehead with the aid of a sleeve and continued, ''It is a good thing, don't get me wrong. I, however, am surprised as to how Christine managed to do that.''

''I don't understand,'' Gustav confessed. ''You have been treating her – it's normal that she's getting better. Is it not?''

Esme Jackson was a woman of God with personal morals difficult to break, but also a medic. Often, her right hand would tremble at her side and then, as if possessed, rise and trace the Sign of the Cross into the air, and such was the gesture that one could have thought that had she only wished, the crucifix would indeed have appeared, soon to be carried away by the breeze. Was the mention of the fact important?

Why yes, everything is for one's actions are nothing more than a pure reflection of his thoughts. And hers were particularly grim for as she stared down at her hands, she wished to have something to say, something that could have comforted the father. Gustav sank into his chair and watched, morbidly enthralled, as she stretched the silence to its limits until it snapped, until the sound as-if gained life and deafened him all at once. Her eyes, those greenish orbs, were on him, and as his mouth opened and closed in interrogation, useless, feckless thing, she began talking. It was the commentary of a doctor that passed through her lips which mirrored perfectly the scare of a troubled parent.

''We've found something else, sir.''

Oh that word, that detached yet emphasized _sir_. Like this she spoke at a conference or during a verdict – for was she not a judge as well, announcing terrible and joyous news? This woman he had known for over fifteen years, and every breath of hers spoke to him – she was going to tell him something, but what, what in God's name? And while a disbeliever, he clenched at his chest and for once was crushed by disappointment by not finding anything to hold onto.

''Naltrexone. The word itself means nothing to you because, of course, you do not know it. It's used during the process of drug detoxification to block the euphoric effect of the substance the subject is addicted to. It is not something you find in your local drug store. Mr. Daae, is there someone in your family who may have had access to it, and could have decided to help Christine in overcoming her dependence?''

The father, or rather the confused and broken shell of a man, shivered and said nothing. This was a blow, but of what kind? Learning that his child had a, softly spoken, problem had been painful enough, and now he wasn't sure whether to greet those news with open arms or close and barricade the door. His eyes rose to meet those of the doctor who now was sitting by his side and, unsure and somewhat shy, had decided after a lifetime of hesitation to seize his hand in a careful embrace. Her lips were tinted with a pinkish smile and in it he drank, aspiring to find comfort.

''It is not a bad thing,'' she continued. ''It can mean that your daughter has been seeking help – and it's formidable – or…'' And it was at this point that she lost words and stared into space. ''Or that someone has been helping her. Sir, Christine is very close to recovery. Let's put it this way.''

''But not because of you,'' numbly, he replied. ''Her grandmother – well, oh I'm sorry, I'm mumbling -has once worked as a,'' there he stopped and shook his head, a grimace tugging at his features. ''What am I talking about, she was an immunologist. And she only rarely visits the hospital today, only to see those she used to work with. Do you understand what I'm saying, do you, doctor?''

''All medics first learn the basics, only after comes the specialization. I suggest you talk to her grandmother, sir. Love is an irrational feeling,'' she whispered as her fingers walked along the expense of Christine Daae's name, written in blank ink upon the file, ''it doesn't always have to make sense. I know I would do the impossible for my son, and let it be a sin; I'll do it still for he is my child and I wish him to be happy and well. Do not raise your voice, Mr. Daae, remember that you too are a parent. You are a lawyer, are you not? Had she been thrown behind bars, would you have not bailed her out? Would you have not come up with the best defense ?''

Once the seeds of doubt thrown, the wind did its duty and dispersed them before they could be caught and placed back into the bag, hid from view and weak conscience. Gustav nodded, agreeing to the allusion but not to the advice – the latter slid away like water from his oil-splattered mind and was forgotten behind as he left.

* * *

Dizziness was only one of the few things she was experiencing. She looked at the IV, a transparent accuser which kept suggesting tearing the needle away from her skin. Let it hurt, let it bleed, but then the she would be marked as a really sick one. A small, bloody trail would appear there where once the tube was, and wouldn't help her situation. She had attempted to apologize for whatever her father was holding against her – after all she could always come back on her words later, and this would hurt him but the main goal, to leave this place, would be achieved.

Her teeth gritted, eyes slightly wet, she shook her head and all guilt-producing thoughts fell in pieces. It didn't matter that he suffered; she did too and yet no one was there to whisper reassuring words full of trust. Christine's hands found the device that allowed her to call the nurse, an old woman with eyes, and whose presence she loathed beyond reason. Yet it was she who could grant her permission to wander, though not far, the hallways.

And of course there was the outdoor garden – which by all means she was allowed to access, yet was always restrained – and the payphone on the second floor. Her purse, though carefully searched and almost ripped apart for signs of what she did not possess, had kindly been left in her keeping and while the heavy footsteps were approaching the door, Christine plunged a hand into it, retrieved her wallet and as rapidly hid it under the pillow.

''Is there something wrong, Ms. Daae?'' the old lady inquired. Her gaze was all over her, knowing and trained, attempting to discover something that others have forgotten to notice.

Finally, sighing and abandoning, she dropped her heavy body into one of the chairs designed for visitors.

In her mind, Christine could almost see the dust flying away, afraid of being crushed by the crone.

''Nothing is wrong,'' her clipped answer fell on deaf ears as she watched her eyebrows rise in unison with her doubt, ''I was simply planning on going out.'' The irony threatened to choke her, gripping at her throat and whispering amusingly contradicting facts. ''I mean, just walk. I'm tired of observing the ceiling all day long.''

''You do know that you have to be back within an hour?''

The menace, the threat, of whatever there was to fear should the unspoken law be disobeyed, made Christine nod vigorously. At last -the gesture apparently satisfying enough- the permission was granted and the guard let down.

For the first time in so many days, she looked at the door; it was unlocked, ready for her to push open and – there her reverie came to an end and so she simply got up, tucked the wallet away ,and got out of the room. The place was still unfamiliar even though she had had the time to study the floor's map. Nurses blabbered, spread gossip, and laughed without restraint. Sometimes, they would do so while passing her room and during those moments she felt the hatred she nourished towards her father reach new heights. There was this eerie and destructive feeling that kept pursuing her, that someone was watching her every move and knew each decision in advance and so as she strolled down the corridor – the IV left behind, carelessly ripped out of her flesh upon permission.

She wasn't mad at Meg or Raoul for that matter, had they been allowed, those two would have found a way to slip pass the doors of the hospital –or was it some center? - to pay her a visit. This was Gustav's doing, she kept reminding herself whenever the storm within her was calming down, thus giving her a reason to keep nourishing the fire. Like this, her actions were justified and it kept other bitter, while good, sentiments at bay. She didn't need guilt around – it was as useless as it was stupid. Had her father felt guilty while throwing her here? Surely not. And she wouldn't too while betraying him.

A man had just left the payphone as she approached it; he turned around; bumped into her; apologized; blabbered nonsense; apologized once more. All the while she kept smiling and reassuring him that everything was fine indeed: the picture of normalcy, so no one would wonder.

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons, her mind as scared as it was confused kept suggesting that mayhap the five was in fact a seven and that the three had nothing to do in the matter. At last, she gripped her left wrist, steadied it, closed her eyes and composed the number. She prayed to whoever would listen that he would take the call, wouldn't ignore and discard it for her own cell phone had been confiscated and by all logics, the name _Christine_ would not appear on the display. And he so didn't seem to appreciate _others_, others who weren't she. It rang once and then it rang twice and each detached dial made her quiver a little more.

And then his voice spoke to her,''Yes?''

She didn't know whether to shout in triumph or keep her little joy to herself. Her breathing labored and tone unsure, she carried on the conversation. All the while her eyes raced around, making sure that no one was watching, listening, gathering information on her behavior. This was madness, this was paranoia, her mind decided and shut down. There was only the phone, firmly pressed to her ear, his voice and hers that existed for the time being.

''It's me,'' she murmured and then: ''why aren't you talking?'' when the silence – heavy, so heavy – was still the only thing between them.

''I am surprised, I am astonished, I am in awe. Choose one of those, Christine, whichever pleases you the most,'' he said very softly and into that softness she leaned, quickly awoken from the sweet delusion by the coarseness of reality.

''Take me away from here,'' she whispered tenderly for him alone to hear. That gentleness surprised her for she had but used it with her father in attempts to gain privileges. ''You said you would do everything for me so many times – take me away. I hate this place.''

''Christine –'' and it was his voice that broke, it was he who did not know what to say or how to act.

The realization washed over her like cold water, awakening and shocking her. "And I hate _him_ too,'' she confessed with passion. ''He said he loved me, he said he trusted me – well obviously he does not! I hate him, how I hate him.''

She heard him clear his throat on the other end before answering hoarsely, ''Who?''

Christine blinked a few times. ''My father of course.'' His lack of reply caused nervousness to gain control over her again. ''Why aren't you talking? What's wrong? Do you believe him too? That I am some sick idiot who isn't content with her life and so searches for other kinds of pleasure?'' And still he didn't speak. She grew hysteric. ''You believe him. You do.''

''I do not, Christine.'' Those words, those simple few words almost made her sob in relief. ''But my dear, my darling, you will be out of there soon. You have to understand that I can't-''

''I will never speak to you again,'' this silenced him at once and rejoicing in her newly found power, she continued on the same note. ''I've always yelled at you to leave me alone. Now I'm actually asking you to come and get me. If you don't do it, I will never utter a word to you again. You may force me into your office, lock me away all day long, but I will not speak to you.''

The seconds flew by atrociously slowly and those were suffocating, and those were difficult to understand. How could he remain silent, simply refuse the challenge and allow her to wander off, away, forever even? She clutched the handset with force, ignoring a couple that was eagerly waiting for her to leave. And even their – people she did not even know! Their! – frustration could be felt, so sensible she was for the time being.

''I'm hanging up,'' her juvenile voice, suddenly raspy from her not swallowing for over a minute, quickly said. ''Since you want to leave me here, I'm hanging up.''

The bait was there, before him, easily within reach and she was waiting for him to make a step and hungrily seize it. And then, at last: ''Christine, Christine my dear, please stay on the line.''

And that smiling, tired and scared Christine did only that. She felt herself relax and immediately her eyes sought a bench, anything really, for her body to collapse on.

Her fluttering sigh was like air; barely heard, barely there.

"So you will come?''

And neutrally he confirmed on his end, "I shall."

"Soon?''

"Soon indeed. Very soon.''

''Stop repeating my words.''

''Goodbye, Christine.''

* * *

When a nurse told her that she had a visitor, Christine didn't look up.

The silence from the person's part and the raw curiosity in the woman's voice were indications enough.

His steps weren't heard until the door closed and a semblance of silence achieved. Through her fingers, she watched him approach her bed. Wary at first, he soon found a chair and pushed it as close at it would go; until it hit the side, until she could feel him breathe next to her.

"Dad came," she whispered. "He came. And I cried."

"I see."

"He cried too."

"You both cried."

"Yes."

With the bright light of her room, he was more interesting to look at than ever. Tall, lanky, he was leaning forward, gloved hands supporting his chin while he was leering at her. Next to him, was a flower bouquet.

Nothing grand. Nothing to arise undesired attention. Simply a few red roses.

She reached out for them; he caught her hands.

"Are those for me ?" she murmured. "No one's ever given me flowers before."

He didn't answer; not at first, at least. Carefully, gently, he kissed her wrists. Lips trailing up but never going farther than the pulse point. Christine shivered, pulled away, pushed him so he would resume his position in the chair.

"It's your fault."

Monsieur reached out, his actions suddenly reeking desperation. He tried to touch her face but failed as she got out of the bed, walking away.

"Christine, no-"

"It's your fault," she repeated anew, this time with ardent vigor. "It's your fault that I'm here, it's your fault that I'm sick." Christine paused, the moment of hesitation devouring her confidence. "I...I...think so."

"You mustn't," he said.

She could not cry out, call for help. They would all think her a liar – they already did. And so when he caught her shoulder, forcefully making her turn around, she but bit her lip.

He smelled of outside, of wind, of the breeze which swept New York early in the morning. Amidst all that, there also was that peculiar, subtle hint of Cologne which she had come to associate with his presence. She stared into his chest, thin and heaving, but as he spoke she could not hear him.

"You called for me, you feeble-minded girl," he was hissing into her ear, fingers pulling at her hair. "You asked me to come, and there I am ! At your feet, before you, just like you've asked and you dare accuse me ?"

Christine shook her head, fighting a sudden onset of tears. "I'm sorry, I was angry at my dad...I wanted to..."

"You don't know what you want," he spat.

"I don't want you to be here. I'm sorry."

He let go of her as though she had shot him. Silent, now hands locked behind his back, he made a few steps back. By the way his masked moved, she could tell he had just opened his mouth – it immediately closed.

"I'm sorry," she spoke again, this time her voice trembling, "I am so sorry. This was mean, I...but...Meg, and Raoul...they both say it's all your fault, and I think they're right. I mean...I'm sorry, I-"

He was at the door, ready to leave any moment now.

She didn't stop him as he pushed it.

In the hallway, a group of students turned their heads to look at the dark, unmoving figure.

"I don't like this, Christine," she heard him say, and then he was gone.


	17. Author's note

**Author's note**

Hey peeps.

First of all, I'd like to tell you all that I do not know when I'll update next. I'm honestly having those big moments during which I simply want to stay away from the Phandom. Why ? Well, is it just me or are there too many love-dovey, fluffy Geriks running around as lately ? It's a serious inspiration killer for me. Not that it's wrong; it's not. I'm simply talking about myself for I need to read something perhaps with a bit more angst to get inspired.

Secondly. I've heard that some are unhappy with my take on Erik in the last chapter. Well, let me just clarify something. Yes, he's a paranoid control freak with breathtaking anger management issues (*cough*CourtesyOfTonyStark*cough*) but for Christ's sake he loves her. Yeah he's gonna be mean and all that, but not 24/7. He's not an idiot either. He's not going come visit her in a hospital and threaten her while she's already down, and be mean, and nasty, and oh so dark and mysterious. Nooo, he's going to use the situation to his own advantage. Oh, so she's mad at her father ? Let's try and make her focus her need for attention on him. And masked men feel guilt too. I don't know what he would be feeling if not guilt, because he really is behind her arguments with her father and her stay within four white walls. I think there's this popular plot bunny going on which people absolutely love writing about. It entails Erik tying Christine down, and later apologizing with tears because he bruised her magnificent, skin of an angel (feel the sarcasm lol ? I've just been awaken by a stupid phone call, I'm not in a good mood XD). So what, he's sorry then but can't be now ? And as for the kisses...He likes touching her. Need I say more ? Consider it him taking advantage of the situation lol.

Anyway, I love every one of you and seriously thank you for your interest in this story which somehow is still alive lol. I knooow that I'm a horrible updater, and I know I tell you this every single time, but I'll try to be better.

Love !


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